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Copyright, 1909 
By Ljttle, Brown & Company 

Copyright, 1910 
By p. F. Collier & Son 

manufactured in u. 8. a. 



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CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Title, Prologue and Epiloguss to the Recuyell of the 

Histories of Troy William Caxton 5 

Epilogue to Dictbs and Sayings of the Philosophsrs 

WnxiAM Caxton 10 

Pbologue to Golden Legend William Caxton 14 

Prologue to Caton William Caxton 15 

Epilogue to Aesop William Caxton 18 

Proem to Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. .William Caxton 19 

Prologue to Malory's King Arthur William Caxton 21 

Prologlte to Virgil's Eneydos William Caxton 25 

Dedication of the Institutes of the Christian Religion 

John Calvin 29 

translated by JOHN ALLEN 

Dedication of the Revolutions of the Heavenly Bodies 

NicQLAus Copernicus 55 

Preface to the History of the Reformation in Scotland 

John Knox 61 

Prefatory Letter to Sir Walter Raleigh on The Faerie 

QuEENE Edmund Spenser 64 

Preface to the History of the World 

Sir Walter Raleigh 69 

Prooemium, Epistle Dedicatory, Preface, and Plan of the 

Instauratio Magna, Etc FnANas Bacon 122 



translation edited by J. SPEDDING 

1 



(1) HO— Vol. 88 



\ 



2 CONTENTS 

Preface to the Novum Organum FkANcis Bacon 

Pretace to the First Fouo Edition of Shakespeare's 
Plays Heminge and Condell 

Preface to the Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathe- 
M ATiCA Sir Isaac Newton 

translated by ANDREW MOTTE 

Preface to Fables, ANaENT and Modern.. . .John Dryden 

Preface to Joseph Andrews Henry Fielding 

Preface to the English Dictionary Samuel Johnson 

Preface to Shakespeare Samuel Johnson 

Introduction to the Propylaen J. W. von Goethe 

Prefaces to Various Volumes of Poems 

William Wordsworth 

Appendix to Lyrical Ballads William Wordsworth 

Essay Supplementary to Preface. .William Wordsworth 

Preface to Cromwell Victor Hugo 

Preface to Leaves of Grass Walt Whitman 

Introduction to the History of English Literature 

H. A. Taine 



F 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 

No part of a hook is jo intimate as the Preface, Here, after 
the Ions labor of the work is over, the author descends from 
his platform, and speaks with his reader as man to man, dis- 
closing kis hopes and fears, seeking sympathy for his difficulties, 
oifering defence or defiance, according to his temper, against 
the eriticistns vihich he anticipates. It thus happens that a per- 
sonality which has been veiled by a formal method throughout 
many chapters, is suddenly seen face to face in the Preface; and 
this alone, if there were no other reason, would justify a volume 
of Prefaces. 

But there are other reasons why a Preface may be presented 
apart from its parent work, and may, indeed, be expected some- 
times to survive it. The Prologues and Epilogues of Caxton 
were chiefly prefixed to translations which have long been super- 
seded; but the comments of this frank and enthusiastic pioneer 
of the art of printing in England not only tell us of his personal 
tastes, but are in a high degree illuminative of the literary habits 
and standards of western Europe in the fifteenth century. Agaiit, 
modern research has long ago put Raleigh's "History of the 
World" out of date; but his eloquent Preface still gives us a 
rare picture of the altitude of an intelligent EUsabethan, of the 
generation which colonised America, toward the past, the pres- 
ent, and the future worlds. Bacon's "Great Restoration" is no 
longer a guide to scientific method; but his prefatory statements 
as to his objects and hopes still offer a lofty inspiration. 

And so with the documents here drawn from the folios of 
Copernicus and Calvin, with the criticism of Dryden and Words- 
worth and Hugo, vaith Dr. Johnson's Preface to his great Dic- 
tionary, with the astounding manifesto of a new poetry from 
Walt Whitman's "Leaves of Grass" — each of them has a value 
and significance independent now of Ike work which it orig- 
inaUy introduced, and each of them presents to us a man. 



.PREFACES AND EPILOGUES 

BY WILUAM CAXTON 
RECUYELL OF THE HISTORIES OF TROY 



Title and Prologue to Book I 

FERE bcginneth the volume entitled and named the 
Recuyell of the Histories of Troy, composed and 
drawn out of divers books of Latin into French by 
! right venerable person and worshipful man, Raoul le 
feure, priest and chaplain unto the right noble, glorious, 
1 mighty prince in his time, Philip, Duke of Burgundy, 
E Brabant, etc., in the year of the Incarnation of our Lord 
i a thousand four hundred sixty and four, and translated 
i drawn out of French into Engrlish by William Caxton, 

^uercer, of the city of London, at the commandment of the 

right high, mighty, and virtuous Princess, his redoubted 
Lady, Margaret, by the grace of God Duchess of Burgundy. 
of Lotrylk, of Brabant, etc. ; which said translation and 
work was begun in Bruges in the County of Flanders, the 
first day of March, the year of the Incarnation of our said 
Lord God a thousand four hundred sixty and eight, and 
ended and finished in the holy city of Cologne the 19th 
day of September, the year of our said Lord God a thousand 
four hundred sixty and eleven, etc. 



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WnXIAM CAXTON 

And on that other side of this leaf followeth the prologue. I 
When I remember that every man is bounden by the 1 
commandment and counsel of the wise man to eschew I 
sloth and idleness, which is mother and nourisher of vices, I 
and ought to put myself unto virtuous occupation and I 
business, then I, having no great charge of occupation, I 
following the said counsel took a French hook, and read I 
therein many strange and marvellous histories, wherein I | 
had great pleasure and delight, as well for the novelty of 
the same as for the fair language of French, which was la 
prose so well and compendiously set and written, which 
methought I understood the sentence and substance of 
every matter. And for so much as this book was new and 
late made and drawn into French, and never had seen it 
in our English tongue, I thought in myself it should be a. 
good business to translate it into our English, to the end 
that it might be had as well in the royaurae of England as 
in other lands, and also for to pass therewith the time, and 
thus concluded in myself to begin this said work. And 
forthwith took pen and int, and began boldly to run forth 
as blind Bayard in this present work, which is named 
"The Eecuyell of the Trojan Histories," And afterward 
when I remembered myself of my simpleness and unper- 
fectness that 1 had in both languages, that is to wit in 
French and in English, for in France was I never, and waa 
bom and learned my English in Kent, in the Weald, where 
I doubt not is spoken as broad and rude English as in any 
place o£ England; and have continued by the space of 30 
years for the most part in the countries of Brabant, 
Flanders, Holland, and Zealand. And thus when all these 
things came before me, after that I had made and written 
five or six quires I fell in despair of this work, and pur- 
posed no more to have continued therein, and those 
quires laid apart, and in two years after laboured no more 
in this work, and was fully in will to have left it, till on 
a time it fortuned that the right high, excellent, and right I 
virtuous princess, my right redoubted Lady, ray Lady 
Margaret, by the grace of God sisler unto the King of 
England and of France, my sovereign lord, Duchess of 
Burgundy, of Lotryk, of Brabant, of Limburg, and of 



HISTORIES OP TBOT 

Luxembourg, Countess of Flanders, of Artois, and of Bur- 
gundy, PalalJne of Hainauit, of Holland, of Zealand and 
of Namur, Marquesse of the Holy Empire, Lady of 
Frisia, of Salins' and of Mechlin, sent for me to speak 
wth her good Grace of divers matters, among the 
which I let her Highness have knowledge of the fore- 
said beginning of this work, which anon commanded me 
to show the said five or six quires to her said Grace; 
and when she had seen them anon she fotmd a default 
in my English, which she commanded me to amend, 
and" moreover commanded me straitly to continue and 
make an end of the residue then not translated; whose 
dreadful commandment I durst in no wise disobey, be- 
cause I am a servant unto her said Grace and receive of 
her yearly fee and other many good and great benefits, 
(and also hope many more to receive of her Highness), 
but forthwith went and laboured in the said translation 
after my simple and poor cunning, also nigh as I can follow- 
ing my author, meekly beseeching the bounleous Highness 
of my said Lady that of her benevolence list to accept and 
take in gree this simple and rude work here following; and 
if there be anything written or said to her pleasure, I shall 
think my labour well employed, and whereas there is de- 
fault that she arette it to the simpleness of my cunning 
which is full small in this behalf; and require and pray all 
them that shall read this said work to correct it, and to 
hold me excused of the rude and simple translation. 
And thus I end my prologue. 

Epilogue to Book II 

Thus endeth the second book of the Recule of the 
Histories of Troy. Which bookes were late translated 
into French out of Latin by the labour of the venerable 
person Raoul le Feure, priest, as afore is said: and by me 
indigne and unworthy, translated into this rude English 
by the commandment of my said redoubted Lady, Duchess 
of Burgundy, And for as much as I suppose the said two 
books be not had before this time in our English language, 
therefore I had tiie better will to accomplish this said 



i 



work; which work was begun in Bruges and continued in 
Ghent and finished in Cologne, in the time of the troublous 
world, and of the great divisions being and reigning, as well 
in the royaumes of England and France as in all other 
places universally through the world; that is to wit the year 
of our Lord a thousand four hundred seventy one. And as 
for the third book, which ireateth of the general and last 
destruction of Troy, it needeth not to translate it into 
English, for as much as that worshipful and religious man, 
Dan John Lidgate, monk of Bury, did translate it but 
late; after whose work I fear to take upon me, that am 
not worthy to bear bis penner and ink-horn after him, to 
meddle me in that work. But yet for as much as I am 
bound to contemplate my said Lady's good grace, and also 
that his work is in rhyme and as far as I know it is not had 
in prose in our tongue, and also, peradventure, he trans- 
lated after some other author tlian this is; and yet for as 
much as divers men be of divers desires, some to read in 
rhyme and metre and some in prose ; and also because that 
I have now good leisure, being in Cologne, and have none 
other thing to do at this time; in eschewing of idleness, 
mother of all vices, I have delibered in myself for the 
contemplation of ray said redoubted lady to take this labour 
in hand, by the sufferance and help of Almighty God; 
whom I meekly supplye to give me grace to accomplish it 
to the pleasure of her that is causer thereof, and that 
she receive it in gree of me, her faithful, true, and most 
humble servant, etc. 

Epilogue to Book III 

Thus eod I this book, which I have translated after mine 
Author as nigh as God hath given me cunning, to whom be 
given the laud and praising. And for as much as in the 
writing of the same my pen is worn, my hand weary and 
not steadfast, mine eyne dimmed with overmuch looking on 
the white paper, and my courage not so prone and ready 
to labour as it hath been, and that age creepetli on me 
^aily and feebleth a!l the body, and also because I have 
promised to divers gentlemen and to my friends to address 



HISTORIES OF TROY 

to them as hastily as I might this said book, therefore I 
have practised and learned at my great charge and dispense 
to ordain this said book in print, after the manner and 
form as ye may here see, and is not written with pen and 
ink as other books be, to the end that every man may 
have them at once. For ail the books of this story, named 
"The Recule of the Histories of Troy" thus imprinted as ye 
here see, were begun in one day and also finished in one 
day, which book I have presented to my said redoubted 
Lady, as afore is said. And she hath well accepted it, 
and largely rewarded me, wherefore 1 beseech Almighty 
God to reward her everlasting bliss after this life, praying 
her said Grace and all them that shall read this book not 
to disdain the simple and rude work, neither to reply against 
thi; saying of the matters touched in this book, though it 
accord not unto the translation of others which have written 
it. For divers men have made divers books which in all 
points accord not, as Dictes. Dares, and Homer. For Dictes 
and Homer, as Greeks, say and write favorably for the 
Giecks, and give to them more worship than to the Trojans; 
and Dares writeth otherwise than they do. And also as for 
the proper names, it is no wonder that they accord not, for 
some one name in these days have divers equivocations 
after the countries that they dwell in; but all accord in 
conclusion the general destruction of that noble city of 
Troy, and the death of so many noble princes, as kings, 
dukes, earls, barons, knights, and common people, and the 
ruin irreparable of that city that never since was re-edified; 
■which may be example to all men during the world how 
dreadful and jeopardous it is to begin a war and what 
harms, losses, and death followeth. Therefore the Apostle 
saith: "All that is written is written to our doctrine," 
which doctrine for the common weal I beseech God may 
be taken in such place and time as shall be most needful in 
increasing of peace, love, and charity; which grant us He 
that suffered for the same to be crucified on the rood tree. 
kOd say we ali Amen for chari^ I 



WILLIAM CAXTON 



DICTES AND SAYINGS OF THE PHILOSOPHERS 

FissT EDITION (1477). Epilogue 

Here endeth the book named The Dictes or Sayings 
of the Philosophers, imprinted by me, William Caxton, 
at Westminster, the year of our Lord 1477. Which book 
is late translated out of French into English by the noble 
and puissant Lord Lord Antony, Earl of Rivers, Lord of 
Scales and of the Isle of Wight, defender and director of the 
siege apostolic for our holy father the Pope in this royaume 
of England, and governor of my Lord Prince of Wales. 
And it is so that at such time as he had accomplished 
this said work, it liked him to send it to me in certain quires 
to oversee, which forthwith I saw, and found therein 
many great, notable, and wise sayings of the philosophers, 
according unto the books made in French which I had 
often before read; but certainly I had seen none in English 
until that time. And so afterward I came unto my said 
Lord, and told him how I had read and seen his book, 
and that he had done a meritorious deed in the labour 
of the translation thereof into our English tongue, where- 
in he had deserved a singular laud and thanks, &c. Then 
my said Lord desired me to oversee It, and where I should 
find fault to correct it; whereon I answered unto his Lord- 
ship that I could not amend it, but if I should so presume 
I might apaire it, for it was right well and cunningly 
made and translated into right good and fair English. 
Notwithstanding, he willed me to oversee it, and shewed 
me divers things, which, as seemed to him, might be left 
! out, as divers letters, missives sent from Alexander to 
' Darius and Aristotle, and each to other, which letters were 
little appertinent unto dictes and sayings aforesaid, foras- 
much as they specify of other matters. And also desired 
me, that done, to put the said book in imprint. And thus 
obeying his request and commandment, 1 have put me in 
devoir to oversee this his said book, and behold as nigh as 
I could how it accordeth with the original, being in French. 
And I find nothing discordant therein, save only in the 



DICTES AND SATTOGS M 

15 and sayings of Socrates, wherein I find that my said 
■i hath left out certain and divers conclusions touching 
iiiiiiien. Whereof I marvel that my Lord hath not written 
tiiem, ne what hath moved him so to do, ne what cause 
h[ had at that time ; but I suppose tliat some fair lady hath 
desired him to leave it out of his book; or else he was 
amorous on some noble lady, for whose love he would not 
set it in his book; or else for the very affection, love, and 
good will that he hath unto all ladies and gentlewomen, he 
thought that Socrates spared the sooth and wrote of women 
more than truth; which I cannot think that so true a man 
uid so noble a philosopher as Socrates was should write 
Otherwise than truth. For if he had made fault in writing 
of women, he ought not, ne should not, be believed in his 
other dictes and sayings. But I perceive that my said 
Lord knoweth verily that such defaults be not had ne found 
in the women bom and dwelling in these parts ne regions 
of the world, Socrates was a Greek, born in a far country 
from hence, which country is all of other conditions than 
this is. and men and women of other nature than they be 
here in this country. For I wot well, of whatsoever con- 
dition women be in Greece, the women of this country be 
right good, wise, pleasant, humble, discreet, sober, chaste, 
obedient to their husbands, true, secret, steadfast, ever busy, 
and never idle, attemperate in speaking, and virtuous in all 
their works — or at least should be so. For which causes 
So evident my said Lord, as I suppose, thought it was not 
of necessity to set in his book the sayings of his author 
Socrates touching women. But forasmuch as I had com- 
mandment of ray said IJDrd to correct and amend where 
I should find fault, and other find t none save that he hath 
left out these dictes and sayings of the women of Greece. 
therefore in accomplishing his commandment — forasmuch 
as I am not certain whether it was in my Lord's copy or not, 
or else, peradventure, that the wind had blown over the leaf 
at the time of translation of his book — I purpose to write 
those same sayings of that Greek Socrates, which wrote of 
the women of Greece and nothing of them of this royaume, 
whom, I suppose, he never knew; for if he had. I dare 
piainfy say that he would have reserved them specially in 



VnXIAM CAXTON 

his uid dictes. Always not presuming to put and s«t thefl) 
in my said Lord's book but in the end apart in the reheaml 
of the works, humbly requiring ail thetn that shall read thu 
Iitd« rehearsal, that if they find any fault to arette it U 
Socrates, and not to roe, which writeth as hereafter fol- 
io we th. 

Socrates said that women t>e the apparels to catch mei^ 
but they take none but them that will be poor or else Ihein 
that know them not. And he said that there is none sq 
great empechemenf unto a man as ignorance and women, 
And he saw a woman that bare fire, of whom he said that 
the hotter bore the colder. And he saw a woman sick, oi 
whom he said that the evil resteth and dwelleth with th* 
evil. And he saw a woman brought to the justice, and 
many other women followed her weeping, of whom he sai4 
the evil be sorry and angry because the evil shall perislk 
And he saw a young maid that learned to write, of whon 
he said that men multiplied evil upon evil. And he said 
that the ignorance of a man is known in three things, that 
is to wit, when he hath no thought to use reason i when 
he cannot refrain his covetise; and when he is governed 
by the counsel of women, in that he knoweth that th^ 
know not. And he said unto his disciples: "Will ye (h^ 
T cnseign and teach you how ye shall now escape from alt 
evil ?" And they answered, "Yea," And then he said to. 
them, "For whatsoever thing that it be, keep you and be welt 
ware that ye obey not women." Who answered to him 
again, "And what sayest thou by our good mothers, anij 
of our sisters?" He said to them, "Suffice you with that 
I have said to you, for all be semblable in malice." And 
he said, "Whosoever will acquire and get science. let him 
never put him in the governance of a woman." And he savf 
a woman that made her fresh and gay, to whom he sai<li 
" Thou resetnblest the fire ; for the more wood is laid tq 
the fire the more will it bum, and the greater is the heat.' 
And on a lime one asked him what him semed of women: 
he answered that the women resemble a tree called Edelllai 
which is the fairest tree to behold and see that may be, bnl 
within it is full of venom. And they said to him and 
demanded wherefore he blamed so women? and that bt 



DKTTES AND SAYINGS « 

HiDMlf had not come into this world, ne none other men 
ilso, without them. He answered, "The woman is like 
unto a tree named Chassoygnet, on which tree there be 
moy things sharp and pricking, which hurt and prick them 
that approach unto it ; and yet, nevertheless, that same 
tree bringeth forth good dates and sweet." And they 
dtmanded him why he fled from the women? And he 
aoswered, "Forasmuch as I see them ilee and eschew the 
good and commonly do evil." And a woman said to him, 
"Wilt thou have any other woman than me?" And he 
answered to her, " Art not ashamed to offer thyself to 
ftim that demandeth nor desireth thee not?" 

So, these be the dictes and sayings of the philosopher 
Socrates, which he wrote in his book; and certainly he 
Wote no worse than afore is rehearsed. And forasmuch 
*> it is accordant that his dictes and sayings should be had 
*s Well as others', therefore I have set it in the end of this 
mofc. And also some persons, peradventure, that have read 
this book in French would have arette a great default in me 
that I had not done my devoir in visiting and overseeing of 
my Lord's book according to his desire. And some other 
also, haply, might have supposed that Socrates had written 
much more ill of women than here afore is specified, where- 
fore in satisfying of all parties, and also for excuse of the 
said Socrates, I have set these said dictes and sayings apart 
in the end of this book, to the intent that if my said lord or 
any other person, whatsoever he or she be that shall read or 
hear it, that if they be not well pleased withal, that they 
with a pen race it out, or else rend the leaf out of the book. 
HtMnMy requiring and beseeching my said lord to take no 
displeasure on me so presuming, but to pardon whereas he 
shall find fault; and that it please him to take the labour of 
the imprinting in gree and thanks, which gladly have done 
™y diligence in the accomplishing of his desire and com- 
mandment; in which I am bounden so to do for the good 
reward that I have received of his said lordship; whom T 
beseech Almighty God to increase and to continue in his 
wrtuous disposition in this world, and after tliis life to live 
^'•rlastingly in Heaven. Amen. 



WnXTAH OAXTOtr 



GOLDEN LEGEND. 



First Edition (1483). Pbologub 

The Holy and blessed doctor Saint Jerome salth this 
Buthority, " Do always some good work to the end that 
the devil find thee not Idle," And the holy doctor Saint 
Austin saith in the book of the labour of monks, that no 
man strong or mighty to labour ought to be idle ; for which 
cause when I had performed and accomplished divers 
works and histories translated out of French into English at 
the request of certain lords, ladies, and gentlemen, as the 
Recuyel of the History of Troy, the Book of the Chess, 
the History of Jason, the history of the Mirror of the 
World, the 15 books of Metamorphoses in wliich be con- 
tained the fables of Ovid, and the History of Godfrey of 
Boulogne in the conquest of Jerusalem, with other divers 
works and books, I ne wist what work to begin and put 
forth after the said works to-fore made. And forasmuch 
as idleness is so much blamed, as saith Saint Bernard, the 
mellifluous doctor, that she is mother of lies and step-dame 
of virtues, and it is she that overthroweth strong men into 
sin, quencheth virtue, nourisheth pride, and maketh the 
way ready to go to hell ; and John Cassiodorus saith that the 
thought of him that is idle thinketh on none other thing but 
on licoroua meats and viands for his belly ; and the holy 
Saint Bernard aforesaid saith in an epistle, when the 
time shall come that it shall behove us to render and give 
accounts of our idle time, what reason may we render or 
what answer shall we give when in idleness is none excuse; 
and Prosper saith that whosoever liveth in idleness liveth in 
■ manner of a dumb beast. And because I have seen the 
authorities that blame and despise so much idleness, and also 
know well that it is one of the capital and deadly sins much 
hateful unto God, therefore I have concluded and firmly 
purposed in myself no more to be idle, but wi!l apply my; 
to labour and such occupation as I have been accustomed to 
do. And forasmuch as Saint Austin aforesaid saith upon 
a psalut that good work ought not to be done for fear of 



CATOW 



IS 



but for the love of righteousness, and that it be of 
and sovereign franchise, and because me-seeroeth to 
le 8 sovereign weal to incite and exhort men and women 
to keep them from sloth and idleness, and to let to be 
understood to such people as be not lettered the nativities, 
tilt lives, the passions, the miracles, and the death of the 
tidy saints, and also some other notorious deeds and acts 
of times past, I have submised myself to translate into 
English the legend of Saints, which is called Legenda Aurea 
in Latin, that is to say, the Golden Legend; for in like wise 
as gold is most noble above all other metals, in like wise is 
tiiis legend h olden most noble above all other works. 
Against me here might some persons say that this legend 
hath been translated before, and truth it is; but foras- 
much as I had by me a legend in French, another in Latin, 
and the third in English, which varied in many and divers 
places, and also many histories were comprised in the two 
other books which were not in the English books; and 
therefore I have written one out of the said three books, 
which I have ordered otherwise than the said English 
legend is, which was so to-fore made, beseeching all ihem 
that shall see or hear it read to pardon rae where 1 have 
erred or made fault, which, if any be, is of ignorance and 
against my will ; and submit it wholly of such as can and 
may, to correct it, humbly beseeching them so to do, and in 
so doing they shall deserve a singular iaud and merit ; and 
1 shall pray for them unio Almighty God that He of His 
benign grace reward them, etc., and that it profit to all them 
that shall read or hear it read, and may increase in them 
virtue, and expel vice and sin, that by the example of the 
holy saints amend their living here in this short life, that 
by their merits they and I may come to everlasting life and 
jblifis ID Heaven. Amen. 



CATON Ci483> 



beglnncth the prologue of proem of the book 
, Catott, which book hath been translated into En- 



WHXIAM CAXTON 

giish by Master Benct Burgh, late Ardideacon of Col- 
chester, and high canon of St. Stephen's at Westminster, 
which fill craftily haih made it in ballad royal for the erudi- 
tion of my lord Bousher, son and heir at that time to my lord 
die Earl of Essex. And because of late came to my hand a 
book of the said Calo in French, which rehearseth many a 
fair learning and notable examples, I have translated it out 
of French into English, as all along hereafter shall appear, 
which I present unto the city of London. 

Unto the noble, ancient, and renowned city, the city of 
London, in England, I, William Caxton, citizen and con- 
jury of the same, and of the fraternity and fellowship of the 
mercery, owe of right my service and good will, and of 
TCry duty am bounden naturally to assist, aid, and counsel, 
as far forth as I can to my power, as to my mother of 
whom I have received my nurture and living, and shall 
pray for the good prosperity and policy of the same during 
my life. For, as me-seemeth, it is of great need, because 
I have known it in my young age much more wealthy, 
prosperous, and richer, than it is at this day. And tlie 
cause is that there is almost none that intendeth to the 
common weal, but only every man for his singular profit 
Oh ! when 1 remember the noble Romans, that for the 
common weal of the city of Rome they spent not only their 
moveable goods but they put their bodies and lives in 
jeopardy and to the death, as by many a noble example 
we may see in the acts of Romans, as of the two noble 
Scipios, African and Asian, Actilius, and many others. And 
among all others the noble Cato, author and maker of this 
bo<^, which he hath left for to remain ever to all the people 
for to learn in it and to know how every man ought to rule 
and govern him in this life, as well for the life temporal as 
for the life spiritual. And as in my judgement it is the 
best book for to be taught to young children in school, and 
also to people of every age, it is full convenient if it be well 
understood. And because I sec that the t-.-ildren that be 
born within the said city increase, and profit not like their 
fathers and elders, but for the most part after that they be 
come to their perfect years of discretion and ripeness of 
age, how well that their fathers ha\-e left to them great 



CATON 17 

quantity of goods yet scarcely among ten two thrive, 
[whereas] I have seen and know in other lands in divers 
cities that of one name and lineage successively have en- 
dured prosperously many heirs, yea, a five or six hundred 
j-ears, and some a thousand; and in this noble city of Lon- 
don it can unneth continue unto tiie third heir or scarcely 
to the second, — O blessed Lord, when I remember this I am 
all abashed; I cannot Judge the cause, but fairer ne wiser 
ne better spoken children in their youth be nowhere than 
there be in London, but at their full ripening there is no 
kernel ne good com found, but chaff for the most part. I 
wot well there be many noble and wise, and prove well and 
be better and richer than ever were their fathers, And to 
the end that many might come to honour and worship, I 
intend to translate this said book of Cato, in which I doubt 
not, and if they will read it and understand they shall 
much the better con rule themselves thereby; for among 
all other books this is a singular book, and may well be 
called the regiment or governance of the body and soul. 

There was a noble clerk named Pogius of Florence, and 
was secretary to Pope Eugene and also to Pope Nicholas, 
which had in the city of Florence a noble and well-stufEed 
library which all noble strangers coming to Florence desired 
to see; and therein they found many noble and rare books. 
And when they had asked of him which was the best book 
of them all, and that he reputed for best, he said that he 
held Cato glosed for the best book of his library. Then 
since that he that was so noble a clerk held this book for 
the best, doubtless it must follow that this is a noble book 
and a virtuous, and such one that a man may eschew all 
vices and ensue virtue. Then to the end that this said book 
may pro6t nnto the hearers of it, I beseech Almighty God 
that I may achieve and accomplish it unto his laud and glory, 
and to the erudition and learning of them that be ignorant, 
that they may thereby profit and be the better. And I re- 
quire and beseecli all such that find fault or error, that of 
_^beir charity they correct and amend it, and I shall heartily 
" ray for them to Almighty God, that he reward them. 



WltXlAM CAXTON 



AESOP. (1483) 



Now then I will 6nish all thes 



fables 



vith this tale t 



k 



foUaweth, which a worshipful priest and a parson told 
me lately. He said that there were dwelling in Ox- 
ford two priests, both masters of art, of whom lliat one 
was quick and could put himself forth, and that other was a 
good simple priest. And so it happened that the master that 
was pert and quick, was anon promoted to a benefice or twain, 
and after to prebends and for to be a dean of a great 
prince's chapel, supposing and weening that his fellow the 
simple priest should never have been promoted, but be 
alway an Annual, or at the most a parish priest. So after 
long time that this worshipful man, this dean, came riding 
into a good parish with a ten or twelve horses, like a pre- 
late, and came into the church of the said parish, and found 
there this good simple man sometime his fellow, which 
came and welcomed him lowly; and that other bad him 
"good morrow, master John," and took him slightly by the 
hand, and asked him where he dwelt. And the good man 
said, " In this parish." " How," said he, " are ye here a 
eoul priest or a parish priest?" "Nay, sir," said he, 
"for lack of a better, though I be not able ne worthy, I 
am parson and curate of this parish." And then that 
other availed his bonnet and said, " Master parson, I pray 
you to be not displeased; I had supposed ye had not been 
beneficed; but master," said he, "I pray you what is this 
benefice worth to you a year?" "Forsooth," said the good 
simple man, " I wot never, for I make never accounts 
thereof how well I have had it four or five years." "And 
know ye not," said he, "what it is worth? it should seem 
a good benefice." " No, forsooth," said he, " but I wot 
well what it shall be worth to me." " Why," said he, " what 
shall it be worth ? " " Forsooth," said he, " if I do my 
true diligence in the cure of my parishioners in preach- 
ing and teaching, and do my part longing to my citre, I 
shall have heaven therefore; and if their souls be lost, or 



CANTERBURY TALES 19 

any of them by my default, I shall be punished therefore, and 
hereof am I sore." And with that word the rich dean 
was abashed, and thought he should do the better and 
take more heed to his cures and benefices than he had 
done. This was a good answer of a good priest and an 
honest. And herewith I finished this book, transiaied and 
printed by me, William Caxton, at Westminster in the 
Abbey, and finished the z6th day of March, the year of our 
Lord 1484, and the first year of the reign of King Richard 
the Third. 



CHAUCER'S CANTERBURY TALES 
Second Edition. (1484) 

PllOEM 

UiT thanks, laud, and honour ought to be given unto 
t clerks, poets, and historiographs that have written many 
^le books of wisedom of the lives, passions, and mir- 
. of holy saints, of histories of noble and famous 
1 and faites, and of the chronicles since the beginning of 
. of the world unto this present time, by which we 
Ldaily informed and have knowledge of many things of 
E should not have known if they bad not left to us 
^r monuments written. Among whom and in especial 
e all others, we ought to give a singular laud unto that 
ble and great philosopher Geoffrey Chaucer, the which for 
B ornate writing in our tongue may well have the name of 
t laureate poet. For to-fore that he by labour embellished, 
ornated, and made fair our English, in this realm was had 
rude speech and incongruous, as yet it appeareth by old 
books, which at this day ought not to have place ne be 
compared among, ne to, his beauteous volumes and ornate 
writings, of whom he made many books and treatises of 
many a noble history, as well in metre as in rhyme and 
prose; and them so craftily made that he comprehended his 
matters in short, quick, and high sentences, eschewing pro- 
lixity, casting away the chaff of superfluity, and shewing 
the picked grain of sentence uttered by crafty and sugared 



20 WILLIAM CAXTON 

eloquence; of whom among all others of his books 1 pur* 
pose to print, by tlic grace of God, the book of the tales ol 
Canterbury, in which I find many a noble history of everf 
state and degree; first rehearsing ihc conditions and th« 
array of each of tliem as properly as possible is to be saidi 
And after their tales which be of nobleness, wisdom, gen- 
tleness, mirth and also of very holiness and virtue, wherciU! 
he finisheth this said book, which book I have diligently^ 
overseen and duly examined, to that end it be made ac« 
cording unto his own making. For I find many of 
said books whidi writers have abridged it, and many things: 
left out ; and in some place have set certain verses that 
he never made ne set in his book; of which books so incor- 
rect was one brought to roe, 6 years past, which I supposed' 
had been very true and correct; and according to th« 
same I did so imprint a certain number of them, which 
anon were sold to many and divers gentlemen, of whom one 
gentleman came to me and said that this book was noft 
according in many place unto the book that Geoffr^ 
Cliaucer had made. To whom I answered that I had made 
it according to my copy, and by me was nothing added ne 
minished. Then he said he knew a book which his father 
had and much loved, that was very true and according unttf 
his own first book by him made; and said more, it I would! 
imprint it again he would get me the same book for a copy, 
howbeit he wist well that his father would not gladly depart 
from it. To whom I said, in case that he could get me sucll 
a book, true and correct, yet I would once endeavour me tO 
imprint it again for to satisfy the author, whereas before byi 
ignorance I erred in hurting and defaming his book in 
divers places, in setting in some things that he never said; 
ne made, and leaving out many things that he made which 
be requisite to be set in it. And thus we fell at accord, 
and he full gently got of his father the said book, and 
delivered it to me, by which I have corrected my book, as' 
hereafter, all along by the aid of Almighty God, shall 
follow; whom I humbly beseech to give me grace and aid' 
to achieve and accomplish to his laud, honour, and glory;, 
and that all ye that shall in this book read or hear, will of 
your charity among your deeds of mercy remember the soul' 



MALORY'S KING ARTHUR 21 

of the said Geoffrey Chaucer, first author and maker of this 
book. And also tliat all we that shall see and read therein 
may so take and understand the good and virtuous tales, 
that it may so pro6t unto the health of our souls that after 
this short and transitory life we may come to everlasting 
life in Heaven. Amen, 

By William Caxton 



W 



MALORY'S KING ARTHUR. 
Prologue 



Atter that I had accomplished and 6nished divers his- 
tories, as well of contemplation as of other historical and 
worldly acts of great conquerors and princes, and also 
certain books of ensamples and doctrine, many noble and 
divers gentlemen of this realm of England came and de- 
manded me many and oft times wherefore that I have 
not done made and printed the noble history of the Saint 
Graal, and of the most renowned Christian King, first and 
chief of the three best Christian and worthy, Arthur, which 
ought most to be remembered among us Englishmen be- 
fore all other Christian Kings. For it is noloyrly known 
through the universal world that there be nine worthy 
and the best that ever were; that is to wit three Paynims, 
three Jews, and three Christian men. As for the Paynims, 
they were to-fore the Incarnation of Christ, which were 
named — tlie first, Hector of Troy, of whom the history is 
come both in ballad and in prose — the second, Alexander 
the Great; and the third, Julius Caesar, Emperor of Rome, 
of whom the histories be well known and had. And as 
for the three Jews, which also were before the Incarnation 
of our Lord of whom the first was Duke Joshua, which 
brought the children of Israel into the land of behest; 
the second, David. King of Jerusalem: and the third Judas 
Maccabreus; of these three the Bible rehearseth all their 
noble histories and acts. And since the said Incarnation 
have been three noble Christian men, installed and admitted 
through the universal world into the number of the nine 
best and worthy, of whom was first the noble Arthur, whose 




f 



WHXIAM CAXTON 

noble acts I purpose to write in this present book hcr« 
following. The second was Charlemagne, or Charles the 
Great, of whom the history is had in many places both in 
French and English; and tlie third and last was Godfrey 
of Boulogne, of whose acts and life I made a book unto the 
excellent prince and king of noble memory. King Edward 
the Fourth. The said noble gentlemen instantly required 
me to print the history oE the said noble king and conqueror. 
King Arthur, and of his knights, with the history of the 
Saint Graal, and of the death and ending of the said Arthur, 
affirming that I ought rather to print his acts and noble 
feats than of Godfrey of Boulogne or any of the other 
eight, considering that he was a man bom within this realm, 
and king and emperor of the same; and that there be in 
French divers and many noble volumes of his acts, and also 
of his knights. To whom I answered that divers men hold 
opinion that there was no such .'\rthur, and that all such 
books as be made of him be but feigned and fables, because 
that some chronicles make of him no mention, ne remember 
him nothing ne of his knights; whereto they answered, and 
one in special said, that in him that should say or think that 
there was never such a king called Arthur, might well be 
aretted great folly and blindness ; for he said that there were 
many evidences of the contrary. First ye may see his sep- 
ulchre in the monastery of Glastonbury; and also in ' Poly- 
chronicon,' in the fifth book, the sixth chapter, and in the 
seventh book, the twenty-third chapter, where his body was 
buried, and after found and translated into the said mon- 
astery. Ye shall see also in the history of Boccaccio, in 
his book 'De casu principum,' part of his noble acts and 
also of his fall. Also Galfridus in his British book re- 
counteth his life, and in divers places of England many 
remembrances he yet of him, and shall remain perpetually, 
and also of his knights. First in the Abbey of West- 
minster at Saint Edward's shrine remaineth the print of 
his seal in red wax closed in beryl, in which is written 
'Patricius Arlhurus. Brilanniae Galliae Germaniae Daciae 
Imperator.' Item, in the castle of Dover ye may see 
Gawain's skull and Caradoc's mantle; at Winchester the 
round table; in other places X^acelot's swoid, and maay 



otfier things. Then all these things considered, there can 
flo man reasonably gainsay but here was a king of this 
Jand named Arthur ; for in all places, Christian and heathen, 
he IS reputed and taken for one of the nine worthy, and 
the first of the three Christian men. And also he is more 
spoken of beyond the sea; more books made of his noble 
acts than there be in England, as well in Dutch, Italian, 
Spanish, and Greek as in French ; and yet of record re- 
main in witness of him in Wales in the town of Camelot 
the great stones and marvellous works of iron lying under 
the ground, and royal vaults, which divers now living 
liath seen. Wherefore it is a marvel why he is no more 
renowned in his own country, save only it accordeth to 
the word of God, which sailh that no man is accepted 
for a prophet in his own country. Then all these things 
aforesaid alleged, I could not well deny but that there 
was such a noble king named Arthur, and reputed one of 
the nine worthy, and first and chief of the Christian men; 
and many noble volumes be made of him and of his noble 
knights in French, which I have seen and read beyond the 
sea, which be not had in our maternal tongue, but in 
Welsh be many, and also in French, and some in English, 
but nowhere nigh all. Wherefore such as have lately been 
drawn out briefly into English, I have, after the simple 
cunning that God hath sent to me, under the favour and 
correction of all noble lords and gentlemen, emprised to 
imprint a book of the noble histories of the said King 
Arthur and of certain of his knights, after a copy unto 
me delivered, which copy Sir Thomas Mallory did take 
out of certain books of French and reduced it into En- 
glish. And I according to my copy have down set it in 
print, to the intent that noble men may see and learn the 
noble acts of chivalry, the gentle and virtuous deeds that 
some knights used in those days, by which they came 
to honour, and how they that were vicious were punished 
and oft put to shame and rebuke ; humbly beseeching all 
□oble lords and ladies and all other estates, of what estate 
or degree they be of, that shall see and read in this said 
took and work, that they take the good and honest acts ia 
remembrance and to follow the same, wherein they 



WILLIAM CAXTON" 

shall find many joyous and pleasant histories and nohle and 
renowned acts of humanity, gentleness, and chivalry. For 
herein may^ be seen noble chivalry, courtesy, humanity, 
friendliness, hardyhood, love, friendship, cowardice, mur- 
der, hate, virtue and sin. Do after the good and leave 
the evil, and it shall bring' you to good fame and renown. 
And for to pass the time this book shall be pleasant to 
read in; but for to give faith and believe that all is true 
that is conlained herein, ye be at your liberty. But all 
is written for our doctrine, and for to beware that we 
f^U not to vice ne sin, but to exercise and follow virtue, 
by which we may come and attain to good fame and renowm 
in this life, and after this short and transitory life to 
come unto everlasting bliss in heaven; the which He grant 
us that reigneth in Heaven, the Blessed Trinity, Amen. 

Then to proceed forth in this said book which I direct 
unto all noble princes, lords and ladies, gentlemen or gen- 
tlewomen, that desire to read or hear read of the noble 
and joyous history of the great conqueror and excellent 
king. King Arthur, sometime King of this noble realm then- 
called Britain, I, William Caxlon, simple person, present 
this hook following which I have emprised to imprint. 
And treateth of the noble acts, feals of arms, of chivalry, 
prowess, hardihood, humanity, love, courtesy, and very gen- 
tleness, with many wonderful histories and adventures. 
And for to understand briefly the contents of this volume, X 
have divided it into 21 books, and every book chaptered, 
as hereafter shall by God's grace follow. The first book 
shall treat how Uther Pendragon begat the noble conqueror. 
King Arthur, and containeth 28 chapters. The second 
book treateth of Balyn the noble knight, and containeth ig 
chapters. The third book treateth of the marriage of King^, 
Arthur to Queen Guinevere, with other matters, and con- 
taineth 15 chapters. The fourth book how Merlin wa«. 
assotted, and of war made to King Arthur, and containeth 
29 chapters. The fiflh book treateth of the conquest of 
Lucius the emperor, and containeth 12 chapters. The sixth 
book treateth of Sir Lancelot and Sir Lionel, and marvel- 
lous adventures, and containeth 18 chapters. The seventh 
book treateth of a noble knight called Sir Garetfa, and 



MALOHrS KING ARTHUR 



25 



d by Sir Kay ' Beaumains,' and containeth 36 chapters, 
ine (ighth book treateth of the birth of Sir Tristram 
tbe noble knight, and of his acts, nnd containeth 41 chapters. 
The ninth book treateth of a knight named by Sir Kay, 
'Le cote mal taille,' and also of Sir Tristram, and con- 
taineth 44 chapters. The tenth book treateth of Sir Tris- 
Cram, and other marvellous adventures, and containeth 83 
chapters. The eleventh book treateth of Sir Lancelot and 
Sir Galahad, and containeth 14 chapters. The twelfth 
ibook treateth of Sir Lancelot and his madness, and con- 
taineth 14 chapters. The thirteenth book treateth how 
Gaiahad came first to King Arthur's court, and the quest 
how the Sang real was begun, and containeth 20 chapters. 
The fourteenth book treateth of the quest of the Sangreal, 
and containeth 10 chapters. The fifteenth hook treateth 
of Sir Lancelot, and containeth 6 chapters. The six- 
teenth book treateth of Sir Boris and Sir Lionel his brother, 
aod containeth 17 chapters. The seventeenth book treat- 
eth of the Sangreal, and containeth 23 chapters. The 
eighteenth book treateth of Sir Lancelot and the Queen, 
and containeth 25 chapters. The nineteenth book treateth 
of Queen Guinevere, and Lancelot, and containeth 13 
chapters. The twentietlj book treateth of the piteous death 
of Arthur, and containeth 22 chapters. The twenty-first 
book treateth of his last departing, and how Sir Lancelot 
came to revenge his death, and containeth 13 chapters. 
The sum is 21 books, which contain the sum of five hun- 
dred and seven chapters, as more plainly shall follow here- 
after. 

^H ENEYDOS (1490) 

^^ Prologue 

Aftsr divers work made, translated, and achieved, having 
no work in hand, I sitting ia my study whereas lay many 
div«rs pamphlets and books, happened that to my hand 
cane a iittle book in French, which lately was translated 
out of Latin by some noble clerk of France, which book is 
1 Aeneidos, made in Latin by that noble poet and 



WILLIAM CAXTON 

great clerk, Virgil. Which book I saw over, and rea 
therein how, after the general destruction of the greal Tro^'r 
Aeneas departed, bearing his old father Anchises upon H- is 
shoulders, his little son lulus on his hand, his wife wifc^ 
much other people following, and how he shipped and <^^H 
parted, with all the history of his adventures that he ha^H 
ere he came to the achievement of his conquest of It^l:^ff| 
as all along shall be shewed in his present book. In wbic^ 
book I had great pleasure because of the fair and honesi 
terms and words in French; which I never saw before 
like, ne none so pleasant ne so well ordered; which bool^ 
as seemed to me should be much requisite to noble i ^^ 
to see, as well for the eloquence as the histories. Hos 
well that many hundred years past was the said book ol 
Aeticidos, with other works, made and learned daily ' 
schools, especially in Italy and other places; which histot; 
* the said Virgil made in metre. And when I had advise 
me in this said book, I delibered and concluded to tranl 
late it into English ; and forthwith took a pen and inj 
and wrote a leaf or twain, which I oversaw again to cot 
rect it. And when I saw the fair and strange terms therein 
I doubted that it should not please some gentlemen whic^ 
late blamed me, saying that in my translations I had over 
curious terms, which could not be understood of common 
people, and desired me to use old and homely terms i 
my translations. And fain would I satisfy every ma 
and so to do took an old book and read therein, and ce 
tainly the English was so rude and broad that I coul 
not well understood it. And also my Lord Abbot of West-' 
minster did do show to me lately certain evidences written 
in old English, for to reduce it into our English now used. 
And certainly it was written in such wise tliat i 
like to Dutch than English, I could not reduce ne bring if 
to be understood. And certainly our language now used 
varieth far from that which was used and spoken when I 
was bom. For we Englishmen be born under the domina- 
tion of the moon, which is never steadfast but ever wavering 
waxing one season and waneth and dec re a set h another 
season. And that common English that is spoken in one 
shire varieth from another, insomuch that in my days 



VIRGIL'S ENEYDOS 

luppened that certain merchants were in a ship in Thames 
ioc to have sailed over the sea into Zealand, and for lack 
of wind they tarried at Foreland, and went to land for to 
refresh them. And one of them named Sheffield, a mercer, 
csme into a house and asked for meat, and especially he 
ssked after eggs; and the good wife answered that she 
could speak no French, and the merchant was angry, for he 
also could speak no French, hut would have had eggs, and 
ibe understood him not. And then at last another said, 
that he would have "eyren"; then the goodwife said that 
she understood him well. Lo, what should a man in these 
days now write, eggs or eyren? Certainly it is hard to 
pitase every man because of diversity and change of lan- 
guage, For in these days every man that ts in any reputa- 
tion in his country will utter his communication and mat- 
tera in such manners and terms that few men shall un- 
derstand them. And some honest and great clerks have 
been with me and desired me to write the most curious 
terms that I could iind; and thus between plain, rude and 
curious I stand abashed. But in my judgment the common 
terms that be daily used be lighter to be understood than the 
old and ancient English. And forasmuch as this present 
book is not for a rude uplandish man to labour therein 
ne read it, but only for a clerk and a nohle gentleman 
that feeleth and understandeth in teats of arms, in love 
and in noble chivalry. Therefore in a mean between both 
1 have reduced and translated this said book into our English, 
not over-rude ne curious; but in such terms as shall he 
onderstood. by God's grace, according to my copy. And 
if any man will intermit in reading of it, and Sndeth 
such terms that he cannot understand, let him go read 
and learn Virgil of the pisties of Ovid, and there he shall 
see and understand lightly all, if He have a good reader 
and informer. For this book is not for every rude and 
uncunning man to see, but to clerks and very gentlemen 
that understand gentleness and science. Then I pray all 
them that shall read in this little treatise to hold me for 
excused for the translating of it, for I acknowledge myself 
ignorant of cunning to emprise on me so high and noble 
a work. But I pray Master John Skelton, late created 



38 WTLLIAM CAXTON 

poet laureate in ihe University of Oxenford, to oversee I 
and correct this said book, and to address and expound, I 
wherever shall be found fault, to them that shall require it 1 
Far him 1 know for sufiicient to expound and English 1 
every difficulty that is therein; for he hath lately trans- 1 
lated the Epistles of Tully, and the book of Diodorus ! 
Siculus, and divers other works out of Latin into English, 
not in rude and old language, but in polished and ornate ■ 
terras craftily, as he that hath read Virgil, Ovid, Tully, 
and all the other noble poets and orators to me unknown^ 
And also he hath read the nine Muses, and understand) 
their musical sciences, and to whom of them each science 
is appropred. I suppose he hath drunken of Helicon's 
well. Then I pray him and such others to correct, add. 
or mtnish whereas he or they shall find fault; for I have but 
followed my copy in French as nigh as to me is possible^ 
And if any word be said therein well, I am glad; and if 
otherwise, I submit my said book to their correction. Which 
book I present tuito the high born, my to-coming natural 
and sovereign lord Arthur, by the grace of God Prince 
of Wales, Duke of Cornwall and Earl of Chester, first- 
begotten son and heir unto our most dread natural and 
sovereign lord and most Christian King, Henry the VII,^ 
by the grace of God King of England and of France,, 
and lord of Ireland; beseeching his noble Grace to receive, 
it in thank of me his most humble subject and servanL. 
And I shall pray unto Almighty God for his prosperous- 
increasing in virtue, wisedom. and humanity, that he mayj 
be equal with the most renowned of all his noble pro-' 
genilors; and so to live in this present life that after this, 
transitory life he and we all may come to everlasting U£# 
in Heaven. Amen. 



DEDICATION 

OF THE INSTITUTES OF 

THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION 

BY JOHN CALVIN (1536) 

Iffis Most Christian Majesty, FRANCIS, King of the 
French, and his Sovereign, John Calvin wisheth peace 
ind salvation in Christ 

''HEN I be^n this work. Sire, nothing was further 
from my thoughts than writing a book which 
would afterwards be presented to your Majesty. 
My intention was only to lay down some elementary prin- 
ciples, by which inquirers on the subject of reli^on might 
be instructed in the nature of true piety. And this labour 
I undertook chiefly for my countrymen, the French, of 
whom I apprehended multitudes to he hungering and thirst- 
ing after Christ, but saw very few possessing any real 
[cTtowledge of him. That this was my design, the book 
itself proves by its simple method and unadorned com- 
position. But when I perceived that the fury of certain 
wrfcked men in your kingdom had grown to such a height, 
as to leave no room in the land for sound doctrine, I 
thought I should be usefully employed, if in the same work 
I delivered my instructions to them, and exhibited my 
confession to you, that you may know the nature of that 
doctrine, which is the object of such unbounded rage to 
those madmen who are now disturbing the country with 
fire and sword. For I shall not be afraid to acknowledge, 
that this treatise contains a summary of that very doctrine, 



/ebn Calyh 



■ jG4- He joined ihe Rrfor 



JOBV C&LYlIf 



s to bef 



aad to fee cocranmcd tmat the facK of die caith. 
know widi what attoci on a JBiiiiMti oo j joar em haw 
fiOed bf dMn, ts Older lo fcoder oar cansc nost 
ia jOftr mean; bid yoor ckxBcncjr sbotUd lead jroa 1 
eoiuider lint, U accttsation be accoooted a wrfBcicot 
dcncc of foilt, there will be an end of aS inaocencc in « 
•ad actioiu. If anr one, indeed, with a view I 
odtum upon tbe doctrine which I am eodean 
fend, fbonld ailcfc that it has long ago been < 
bjr the ceaeraJ cofueot, aad suppressed by man; | 
dccbiMU, this will be only e^iuTalect to saying, 
hai been fometinKs riolently rejected through the infloenoi 
and power of its adversaries, and sometimes insidionsl]^ 
and fraudulently oppressed by falsehoods, artifices, ' 
calnumici. Violence is displayed, when sanguinary : 
tencca are passed against it without the cause being heard^ 
•ad fraud, when it is ttnjustly accused of sedition i 
mischief. I^st any one should suppose that these our coiii<|i] 
ptaJati arc unfounded, you yourself. Sire, can bear wttnessfl 
of the false calumnies with which you hear it daily tra-l 
duccd; that its only tendency is to wrest the sceptres ofl 
kings out of their hands, to overturn all the tribunals andl 
Judicial proceedings, to subvert all order and governments, ■ 
to disturb the peace and tranquillity of the people, to ab-fl 
rogale all laws, to scatter all properties and possessionsi^ T 
and, in a word, to involve every thing tn total conEusioa.! 
And yet you hear the smallest portion of what is alleged 
against it; for such horrible things are circulated among! 
the vulgar, that, if tliey were true, the whole world wouldl 
Justly pronounce it and its abettors worthy of a thousand! 
fires and gibbets. Wlio, then, will wonder at its becoming I 
the object of public odium, where credit is given to sucl) | 
mott inir[uiloUB accusations? This is the cause 
general consent and conspiracy to condemn us and oucJ 
doctrine. Hurried away with this impulse, those wha-1 
■it in Judgment pronounce for sentences the prejudices they* 
brought from home with them; and think their duty fully I 
discharged if they condcuui none to be punished but suchi 



TO THE INSTITUTES 

as are convicted by their own confession, or by sufficient 
proofs. Convicted of what crime? Of this condemned 
(foctrine, they say. But with what justice is it condemned? 
Now, the ground of defence was not to abjure the doctrine 
ilfdf, but to maintain its truth. On tliis subject, however, 
word is allowed to be uttered. 

irefore I beseech you, Sire,— and surely it is not an 
inable request, — to take upon yourself the entire 
:ance of this cause, which has hitherto been cod- 
ftlsedly and carelessly agitated, without any order of law, and 
with outrageous passion rather than judicial gravity. Think 
apt that I am now meditating my own individual defence, 
m order to effect a safe return to my native country; for, 
though I feel the affection which every man.ought to feel for 
it, yet, under the existing circumstances, I regret not my re- 
moval from it But I plead the cause of all the godly, and 
consequentiy of Christ himself, which, having been in these 
times persecuted and trampled on in all ways in your kirg- 
doiu, now lies in a most deplorable state; and this indeed 
rather through the tryanny of certain Pharisees, than with 
your knowledge. How this comes to pass is foreign tg 
my present purpose to say; but it certainly lies in a most 
afflicted state. For the ungodly have gone to such lengths, 
that the truth of Christ, if not vanquished, dissipated, and 
entirely destroyed, is buried, as it were, in ignoble obscurity, 
while the poor, despised church is either destroyed by cruel 
massacres, or driven away into banishment, or menaced 
and terrified into total silence. And still they continue 
their wonted madness and ferocity, pushing violently against 
ihe wall already bent, and finishing the ruin they have begun. 
In the meantime, no one comes forward to plead the cause 
against such furies. If there he any persons desirous of 
appearing most favourable to the truth, they only venture an 
opinion, that forgiveness should be extended to the error 
and imprudence of ignorant people. For this is the language 
of these moderate men, calling that error and imprudence 
which they know to be the cerlain truth of God, and those 
ignorant people, whose understanding they perceive not 
to have been so despicable to Christ, but that be has favoured 
tfaem with the mysteries of his heavenly wisdom. Thus all 



^ 



I 



JOHN CALVnr 

; asfiftffled of the Gospel. But it shall be yours, Slrt, 
not to turn away your ears or thoughts from so just a 
defence, especially in a cause of such importance as the 
maintenance of God's glory unimpaired in the world, the 
preservation of the honor of divine truth, and the con- 
tinuance of the kingdom of Christ uninjured among ux 
This is a cause worthy of your attention, worthy of 3roiir 
cognizance, worthy of your throne. This consideration con- 
stitutes true'royalty, to acknowledge yourself in the govern- 
ment of your kingdom to be the minister of God- 
where the glory of God is not made the end of the govern- 
ment, it is not a legitimate sovereignty, but a usurpation. 
And he is deceived who e.xpects lasting prosperity in that 
kingdom which is not ruled by the sceptre of God, that i^ 
his holy word; for that heavenly oracle cannot fail, whidi. 
declares that " where there is no vision, the people perish,"" 
Nor should you be seduced from this pursuit by a contend' 
of our meanness. We are fully conscious to ourselves how 
very mean and abject we are, being miserable sinners before 
God, and accounted most despicable by men; being (if you. 
please) the refuse of the world, deserving of the vilest ap- 
pellations that can be found; so that nothing remains for 
us to glory in before God, but his mercy alone, by which, 
without any merit of ours, we have been admitted to the 
hope of eternal salvation, and before men nothing but our 
weakness, the slightest confession of which is esteemed I 
them as the greatest disgrace. But our doctrine must stand, 
exalted above all the glory, and invincible by all the power 
of the world; because it is not ours, but the doctrine ot 
the living God, and of his Christ, whom the Father bath' 
constituted King, that he may have dominion from sea to 
sea, and from the fiver even to the ends of the earth, ani 
that he may rule in such a manner, that the whole eartb 
with its strength of iron and with its splendour of gold am 
silver, smitten hy the rod of his mouth, may be broken to 
pieces tike a potter's vessel ;' for thus do the prophets fore* 
teJI the magnificence of his kingdom. 

Our adversaries reply, that our pleading the word oi 
God Is a false pretence, and that wc are nefarious COft 

^Prer, xxiz. iS. 'Duiie] il. 34. iMub xi. 4. Putm iL f, 

(1) HC— Vol. 8B 



TO THE INSTITUTES 33 

ruplers of it But that this is not only a malicious calumny, 
bill egregious impudence, by reading our confession, you 
win, in your wisdom, be able to judge. Yet soraetiiing fur- 
ther is necessary to be said, to excite your attention, or at 
least to prepare your mind for this perusal. Paul's direc- 
tion, that every prophecy be framed "according to the 
analogy of faith,'" has fixed an invariable standard by which 
all interpretation of Scripture ought to be tried. If our 
principles be examined by this rule of faith, the victory is 
ours. For what is more consistent with faith than to 
acknowledge ourselves naked of all virtue, that we may be 
dothed by God; empty of all good, that we may be filled by 
him; slaves to sin, that we may be hberated by him; blind, 
that we may be enlightened by him ; lame, that we may be 
guided; weak, that we may be supported by him; to divest 
ourselves of all ground of glorying, that he alone may be 
eminently glorious, and that we may glory in him? When 
wt advance these and simiiiar sentiments, they interrupt us 
with complaints that this is the way to overturn, I know not 
what blind light of nature, pretended preparations, free will, 
and works meritorious of eternal salvation, together with all 
tiieir supererogations; because they cannot bear that the 
praise and glory of ail goodness, strength, righteousness, 
and wisdom, should remain entirely with God. But we read 
of none being reproved for having drawn too freely from 
the fountain of living waters; on the contrary, they are 
severely upbraided who have " hewed them out cisterns, 
broken cisterns, that can hold no water.'" Again, what 
is more consistent with faith, than to assure ourselves of 
God being a propitious Father, where Christ is acknowl- 
edged as a brother and Mediator? than securely to expect 
all prosperity and happiness from Him. whose unspeakable 
love towards us went so far, that "be spared not his own 
Son, but delivered him up for us?"' than to rest in the 
certain expectation of salvation and eternal life, when 
we reflect upon the Father's gift of Christ, in whom such 
treasures are hidden? Here they oppose us, and complain 
that this certainty of confidence is chargeable with arrogance 
and presumption. But as we ought to presume nothing of 
■ Bom. xii. 6. *J(r. li. ij. ■ Koni. fiit. 31. 

(3) HC— Vol. S» 




IHN CALVIW 




ourseives, so we should presume every thing of God; nof J 
are we divested of vain glory for any other reason thw 
that we may learn to glory in the Lord. What shall I i 
more? Review, Sire, al) the parts of our cause, and cc 
sider us worse than the most abandoned of mankind, uif 
less you clearly discover that we thus " both labor and suffer 
reproach, because we trust in the living God,"* because WC 
believe that " this is life eternal, to know the only true G«]i 
and Jesus Christ whom he hath sent.'" For this hope s 
of us are bound in chains, others are lashed with acoui 
others are carried about as laughing-stocks, others are ou^ 
la wed, others are cruelly tortured, others escape by flight! 
but we are all reduced to extreme perplexities, execrate^ 
with dreadful curses, cruelly slandered and treated will] 
the greatest indignities. Now, look at our adversaries, (J 
speak of the order of priests, at whose will and direction! 
others carry on ttiese hostilities against us,) and consider I. 
little with me by what principles they are actuated. Thfl 
true religion, which is taught in the Scriptures, and oughjt 
to be universally maintained, they readily permit both thenw 
selves and others to be ignorant of, and to treat vnHf/ 
neglect and contempt. They think it unimportant wt)^ 
any one holds or denies concerning God and Christ, pro^ 
vided he submits his mind with an implicit failh (as tbnn 
call it) to the judgment of the Church. Nor are they mucq 
affected, if the glory of God happens to be violated witl|. 
open blasphemies, provided no one lift a finger against the 
primacy of the Apostolic See, and the authority of theif. 
iioly Mother Church. Why, therefore, do they contend wiU| 
such extreme bitterness and cruelty for the mass, purgatory, 
pilgrimages, and similar trifles, and deny that any pie^ 
can be maintained without a most explicit faith, so to spe^i)^ 
in these things; whereas they prove none of them from thfl 
word of God? Why, but because their belly is their God» 
their kitchen is their religion; deprived of which they con- 
sider themselves no longer as Christians, or even as men^ 
For though some feast themselves in splendour, and other? 
subsist on slender fare, yet all live on the same pot, which, 
without tliis fuel, would not only cool, but completely freeze:, 
•i Tim. It. m, 'John xiii. 3. 



TO THE INSTITUTES 

Evny one of them, therefore, who is most solicitous lor 

Us belly, is found to be a most strenuous champion for 
their faith. Indeed, they universally exert themselves for 
the preservation of their kingdom, and the repletion of their 
beili'es; but not one of them discovers the least indication 
of fincere zeal. 

Nor do their attacks on our doctrine cease here; they 
urge every topic of accusation and abuse to render it an 
object of hatred or suspicion. They call it novel, and of 
recent origin, — tiiey cavil at it as doubtful and uncertain,— 
they inquire by what miracles it is confirmed, — they ask 
whether it is right for it to he received contrary to the con- 
sent of so many holy fathers, and the custom of the highest 
antiquity,— they urge us to confess that it is schismatica! 
in stirring up opposition against the Church, or that the 
Church was wholly extinct for many ages, during which no 
$iich thing was known. — Lastly, they say all arguments are 
nonecessary; for that its nature may be determined by its 
fruitB, since it has produced such a multitude of sects, so 
many factions tumults, and such great licentiousness of 
vices. It is indeed very easy for them to insult a deserted 
cause with the credulous and ignorant multitude; but, if 
we had also the liberty of speaking in our turn, this acri- 
mony, which they now discover in violently foaming against 
US with equal licentiousness and impunity, would presently 
cool. 

In the first place, their calling it novel is highly injurious 
to God, whose holy word deserves not to be accused of 
novelty, I have no doubt of its being new to them, to whom 
Jesus Christ and the Gospel are equally new. But those 
who know the antiquity of this preaching of Paul, "that 
Jesus Christ died for our sins, and rose again for our justi- 
Scation,'" will find no novelty among us. That it has long 
been concealed, buried, and unknown, is the crime of human 
impiety. Now that the goodness of God has restored it to 
oa, it ought at least to be allowed its just claim of antiquity. 
From the same source of ignorance springs the notion of 
its being doubtful and uncertain. This is the very thing 
wbich the I-ord complains of by his prophet; that "the ox 
*fiom, IT. ay i Cor. it. 3, 17, 



JOHN CALVIM 

knowelli his owner, and the ass his master's crib,'* bill 
that his people knjw not him. But however they may laagh, 
at its uncertainly, if they were called to seal their own 
doctrine with Vheir blood and lives, it would appear how 
much they value it Very different is our confidence, which 
dreads neither the terrors of death, nor even the tribunal 
of God. 

Their requiring miracles of us is altogether unreasonable; 
for we forge no new Gospel, but retain the very same 
whose truth was confirmed by all the miracles ever wrought 
by Christ and the apostles. But they have this peculiar 
advantage above us, that they can confirm their faith by 
continual miracles even to this day. But the truth is, they 
allege miracles which are calculated to unsettle a mind, 
otherwise well established, they are so frivolous and 
ridiculous, or vain and false. Nor, if they i 
preternatural, ought they to have any weight in opposition 
to the truth of God, since the name of God ought to be sanc- 
tified in all places and at all times, whether by miraculous 
events, or by the common order of nature. This fallacy 
might perhaps be more specious, if the Scripture did not 
apprize us of the legitimate end and uss of miracles. For 
Mark informs us, that the miracles which followed the 
preaching of the apostles were wrought in confirmation" 
of it, and Luke tells us, that" " the Lord gave testimony to 
the word of his grace," when " signs and wonders " were 
" done by the hands " of the apostles. Very similar to which , 
is the assertion of the apostle, that " salvation was con- 
firmed " by the preaching of the Gospel, " God also bearinr 
witness with signs, and wonders, and divers miracles. 
But those things which we are told were seals of the Gospel, 
shall we pervert to undermine the faith of the Gospel? 
Those things which were designed to be testimonials of the 
truth, shall we accommodate to the confirmation of false- 
hood? It is right, therefore, that the doctrine, which, ac- 
cording to the evangelist, claims the first attention, be 
examined and tried in the first place; and if it be approved, 
,then it ought to derive confirmation from miracles. But 
it is the characteristic of sound doctrine, given by Chris^ 
*lMi4liL3. "liUrkSTbStk "Acu »v. 3. "HcU iL M. 



TO THE INOTITUTES ST 

that it lends to promote, not the glory of men, but the 
glory of God." Christ having laid down this proof of a 
dodrine, it is wrong to esteem those as miracles which are 
directed to any other end than the glorification of the name 
of God alone. And we should remember that Satan has 
Wi wonders, which, though they are juggling tricks rather 
than real miracles, are such as delude the ignorant and in- 
Mperienced. Magicians and enchanters have always been 
famous for miracles; idolatry has been supported by aston- 
ishing miracles ; and yet we admit them not as proofs of the 
tnperstition of magicians or idolaters. With this engine 
also the simplicity of the vulgar was anciently assailed by 
flie Donatists, who abounded in miracles. We therefore 
give the same answer now to our adversaries as Augusline" 
gave to the Donatists, that our Lord hath cautioned us 
against these miracle-mongers by his prediction, that there 
(hould arise false prophets, who, by various signs and lying 
wonders, "should deceive (if possible) the very elect."" 
And Paul has told us, that the kingdom of Antichrist would 
be "with all power, and signs, and lying wonders."" But 
ibtse miracles (they say) arc wrought, not by idols, or sor- 
cerers, or false prophets, but by saints ; as if we were igno- 
rant, that it is a stratagem of Satan to "transform" him- 
self "into an angel of light."" At the tomb of Jeremiah," 
who was buried in Egypt, the Egyptians formerly offered 
sacrifices and other divine honours. Was not tliis abusing 
God's holy prophet to the purposes of idolatry ? Yet they 
supposed this veneration of his sepulchre to be rewarded 
with a cure for the bite of serpents. What shall we say, 
but that it has been, and ever will be, the most righteous 
vengeance of God to " send those who receive not the love 
of the truth strong delusions, that they should believe a 
lie?"" We are by no means without miracles, and such 
as are certain, and not liable to cavils. But those under 
which they shelter themselves are mere illusions of Satan, 
seducing the people from the true worship of God to vanity. 
Another calumny is their charging us with opposition to 
the fathers, — I mean the writers of the earlier and purer 

«John viL 18. 1111. 50. "In Joan, trart. 13, "Malt iraiv. S4- 
" 3 TbcM iL ». "a Cor. li. i*. " Hietom. in praef. Jcrcm. 

'■aThcau ii, 10, 11. 



^ 



JOHN OAI.VIK 

Ages, — as if those writers were abettors of tlieir i 
whereas, if the contest were to be terminaleil by tbU a 
ily, the victory in most parts of the controversy — to speak i 

the most modest terms — would be on our side. But thoug 
the writings of those fathers contain many wise and exc 
lent things, yet in some respects they have suffered the co 
moa fate of mankind; these very dutiful children reverenc 
only their errors and mistakes, but their excellences 1 
either overlook, or conceal, or corrupt; so that it may t 
be said to be their only study to collect dross from th« n 
of gold. Then they overwhelm us with senseless c" 
as despisers and enemies of the fathers. But we do not hol 
them in such contempt, but that, if it were consistent « 
my present design, I could easily support by their sultry 
most of the sentiments that we now maintain. But wl 
we make use of their writings, we always remember t 
"all things are ours." to serve we, not to have < 
over us, and that "we are Christ's"" alone, and owe hill 
universal obedience. He who neglects this distinction ^ 
have nothing decided in religion; since those holy men wej 
ignorant of many things, frequently at variance with ew " 
other, and sometimes even inconsistent with themsetvi 
There is great reason, they say, for the admonition i 
Solomon, "not to transgress or remove the ancient 1 
marks, which our fathers have set"" But the same rule i 
not applicable to the bounding of fields, and to the obediei 
of faith, which ought to be ready to "forget her own peo| 
and her father's house."" But it they are so fond of allege 
rizing, why do they not explain the apostles, rather than an 
others, to be those fathers, whose appointed landmarks it 
so unlawful to remove? For this is the interpretation fl 
Jerome, whose works they have received into their canon 
But if they insist on preserving the landmarks of tho 
whom they understand to be intended, why do they ; 
pleasure so freely transgress them themselves? There we' 
two fathers," of whom one said, that our God neither ea 
nor drinks, and therefore needa neither cups nor dishes 
the other, that sacred things require no gold, and that gql 

"1 Cor. HI. IT, 33. «P»oi. srn. i8, "Psilm iIt. 



TO THE INSTITUTES 39 

it no recotomendation of that which is not purchased with 
gold. This landmark therefore is transgressed by those who 
io sacred things are so much delighted with gold, silver, 
ivory, marble, jewels, and silks, and suppose that God is not 
rightly worshipped, unless all things abound in exquisite 
tplendour, or rather extravagant profusion. There was a 
father" who said he freely partook of flesh on a day when 
Others abstained from it, because he was a Christian. They 
transgress the landmarks therefore when they curse the 
soul that tastes fiesli in Lent. There were two fathers," of 
whom one said, that a monk who labors not with his hands is 
on a level with a cheat or a robber; and the other, that it is 
nolawful for monks to live on what is not their own, not- 
withstanding their assiduity in contemplations, studies, and 
prayers; and they have transgressed this landmark by 
placing the idle and distended carcasses of monks in cells 
and brothels, to be pampered on the substance of others. 
There was a father" who said, that to see a painted image 
of Christ, or of any other saint, in the temples of Christians, 
is a dreadful abomination. Nor was this merely the sentence 
of an individual; it was also decreed by an ecclesiastical 
council, that the object of worship should not be painted on 
the walls. ITiey are far from confining themselves within 
these landmarks, for every corner is filled with images. 
Another father^ has advised that, after having discharged 
the office of humanity towards the dead by the rites of 
sepulture, we should leave them to their repose. They break 
through these landmarks by inculcating a constant solicitude 
for the dead. There was one of the fathers" who asserted 
that the substance of bread and wine in the eucharist ceases 
not, but remains, just as the substance of the human nature 
remains in the Lord Christ united with the divine. They 
transgress this landmark therefore by pretending that, on 
the words of the Lord being recited, the substance of bread 
and wine ceases, and is transubstantiated into his body and 
blood. There were fathers" who, while they exhibited to 

" Spiridioo. Trip. Hist- lib. i. 0. lo. 

»TrijJ. Hist, lib, 8. c. 1. Aogmt. de Opere Mon. c. 17. 
"Epiph. Epiat. sb Hier. -nirs. Cor. Elibfr. c. 36. 
Ji A^f. A^ *,bra. rib. I, c 7. «Gelaa. Pap. in Cone. Rnm- 

I Cap. £plic«. Calix. Papa de Code. diit. 3. 




JOHN CALVIN 

the universal Church only one eucharist, and forbade i 

scandalous and immoral persons to approach it, at the s 
time severely censured all who, when present, did not par- 
take of it. How far have they removed these landmarki, 
when they fill not only the churches, but even private houses, 
with their masses, admit all who choose to be spectators of 
them, and every one the more readily in proportion to the 
magnitude of his contribution, however chargeable with 
impurity and wickedness! They invite none to faith I 
Christ and a faithful participation of the sacraments; but 
rather for purposes of gain bring forward their own worl 
instead of the grace and merit of Christ. There were twa 
fathers," of whom one contended that the use of Christ's 
sacred supper should be wholly forbidden to those who, c 
tent with partaking of one kind, abstained from the other; 
the other strenuously maintained that Christian people ou^t 
not to be refused the blood of their Lord, tor the canfessioq 
of whom they are required to shed their own. These laiut 
marks also they have removed, in appointing, by an : 
violable law, that very thing which the former punished with 
excommunication, and the latter gave a powerful reason ior 
disapproving. There was a father" who asserted the 
temerity of deciding on either side of an obscure subject 
without clear and evident testimonies of Scripture. This 
landmark they forgot when they made so many constitutionj, 
canons, and judicial determinations, without any author!^ 
from the word of God. There was a father" who upbraided 
Montanus with having, among other heresies, been the firs) 
imposer of laws for the observance of fasts. They hav< 
gone far beyond this landmark also, in establishing fasti 
by the strictest laws. There was a father" who denied tbft) 
marriage ought to be forbidden to the ministers of tin 
Church, and pronounced cohabitation with a wife to be rerf 
chastity; and there were fathers who assented to hia judf 
ment. They have transgressed these landmarks by enjoinin) 
on their priests the strictest celibacy. There was a fathei 
who thought that attention should be paid to Christ only, oj 

"GelDB. cu. Comperimas dc ConB. dio. 3. Cypi. EpiM. i, lib. i, deL 
"Atmiit. lib. 1. de Pec. Mer. cap. ult. 
■Apolloa. At ituo Ecd, Hiit. lib, 5, cap. it, 11. 
"Aphnnt. Tcip. HlK. lib. a, c 14. Cypr. EpiK. a 



TO THE INSTITUTES 41 

whom it is said. " Hear ye him," and that no re^rd should 
be had to what others before us have either said or done, 
only to what has been commanded by Christ, who is pre* 
eminent over all. This landmark they neither prescribe to 
tbemselves, nor permit to be observed by others, when they 
set up over themselves and others any masters rather than 
Christ. There was a father" who contended that the Church 
ODgfat not to take precedence of Christ, because his judg- 
ment is always according to truth; but ecclesiastical judges, 
liie other men, may generally be deceived. Breaking down 
this landmark also, they scruple not to assert, that all the 
authority of the Scripture depeods on the decision of the 
Church, All the fathers, with one heart and voice, have 
declared it execrable and detestable for the holy word of 
God to be contaminated with the subtleties of sophists, and 
perplexed by the wrangles of logicians. Do they confine 
tiientaelves within these landmarks, when the whole business 
of their lives is to involve the simplicity of the Scripture in 
ndkss controversies, and worse than sophistical wrangles? 
Mthat if the fathers were now restored to life, and heard 
thii art of wrangling, which they call speculative divinity, 
they would not suspect the dispute to have the least reference 
to God. But if I would enumerate all the instances in which 
tte authority of the fathers is insolently rejected by those 
wlio would be thought their dutiful children, my address 
would exceed all reasonable bounds. Months and years 
would be insufficient for me. And yet such is their con- 
lummate and incorrigible impudence, tliey dare to censure 
us for presuming to transgress the ancient landmarks. 

Kor can they gain any advantage against us by their 
argument from custom; for, if we were compelled to submit 
to custom, we should have to complain of the greatest in- 
jasticc. Indeed, if the judgments of men were correct, 
custom should be sought among the good. But the fact is 
often very different. What appears to be practiced by many 
soon obtains the force of a custom. And human affairs have 
scarcely ever been in so good a state as for the majority to 
be pleased witli things of real excellence. From the private 
vices of multitudes, therefore, has arisen public error, or 

^Auc. cap. a, Gontr. Cresc Cranunatii^ 



JOHW CALVW 

rather a common agreement of vices, which these good men 
would now have to be received as law. It ia evident to all 
who can see, that the world is inundated with more than a 
ocean of evils, that it is overrun with numerous destructive 
peats, that every thing is fast verging to ruin, so that ^ 
must altogether despair of human affairs, or vigorously and 
even violently oppose such immense evils. And the remedj^ 
is rejected for no other reason, but because we have beer 
accustomed to the evils so long. But let public error be 
tolerated in human society; in the kingdom of God nothisf 
but his eternal truth should be heard and regarded, whicfc 
no succession of years, no custom, no confederacy, can cif* 
cumscribe. Thus Isaiah once taught the chosen people ot 
God: " Say ye not. A confederacy, to all to whom this pet>- 
pie shall say, A confederacy:" that is, that they should not 
unite in the wicked consent of the people ; " nor fear ttaelf . 
fear, nor be afraid," but rather " sanctify the Lord of ho&ts,'' 
that he might "be their fear and their dread,"" Noi^ 
therefore, let them, if they please, object against us past 
ages and present examples; if we "sanctify the Lord of 
hosts," we shall not be much afraid. For, whether man^ 
ages agree in similar impiety, he is mighty to take vtagtt* 
ance on the third and fourth generation; or whether 
the whole world combine in the same iniquity, he has given 
an example of the fatal end of those who sin with a multt*' 
tude, by destroying all men with a deluge, and prcservinj 
Noah and his small family, in order that his individual faiA' 
might condemn the whole world. Lastly, a corrupt custonV 
is nothing but an epidemical pestilence, which is equalljn 
fatal to its objects, though they fall with a multitude. ~ 
sides, they ought to consider a remark, somewhere made by 
Cyprian," that persons who sin through ignorance, thou^ 
they cannot be wholly exculpated, may yet be considered ift 
some degree excusable; but those who obstinately reject t' 
truth offered by the Divine goodness, are without any excnstf 
at alL 

Nor are we so embarrassed by their dilemma as to t 
obliged to confess, either that the Church was for som* 

"T.ainti Ti(i. 1,, 13. 

3, lib. a, et in EpiiL id. JnlUa. do Haent. ba|iti& 



TO THE INSTITUTES 43 

time extinct, or that we have now a controversy with 
file Church. The Church of Christ has h'ved. and will 
Mntinue to live, as long as Christ shall reign at the right 
hand of the Father, by whose hand she is sustained, by 
vffiose protection she is defended, by whose power she 
is preserved in safety. For he will undoubtedly per- 
form what he once promised, to be with his people " even 
to the end of the world."" We have no quarrel against 
tiie Church, for with one consent we unite with all 
Ihe company of the faithful in worshipping and adoring 
the one God and Christ the Lord, as he has been adored 
iy all the pious in all ages, But our opponents deviate 
widely from the truth when they acknowledge no Church 
but what is visible to the corporeal eye, and endeavour to 
eircumscribe it by those limits within which it is far from 
iring included. Our controversy turns on the two following 
points:^ — 6rst, they contend that the form of the Church is 
always apparent and visible; secondly, they place that form 
in ihe see of the Roman Church and her order of prelates. 
We assert, on the contrary, first, that the Church may exist 
Wifliout any visible form ; secondly, that its form is not con- 
tsined in that external splendour which they foolishly 
ximire, but is distinguished by a very different criterion, vie, 
tile pure preaching of God's word, and the legitimate admin- 
Mtration of the sacraments. They are not satisfied unless the 
Ghurch can always be pointed out with the 6nger. But how 
"ften among the Jewish people was it so disorganized, as to 
"9vt no visible form left? What splendid form do we sup- 
Pose could be seen, when Elias deplored his being left 
•lotie?" How long, after the coming of Christ, did it remain 
'^•thout any external form? How often, since that time, 
"3Ve wars, seditions, and heresies, oppressed and totally 
obscured it? H they had lived at that period, would they 
''ave believed that any Church existed ? Yet Elias was in- 
formed that there were " left seven thousand" who had " not 
"^^ved the knee to Baal." Nor should we entertain any 
"pubt of Christ's having always reigned on earth ever since 
^is ascension to heaven. But if the pious at such periods 
■^ad sought for any form evident to their senses, must not 

nMalt. xxriii. 20. "< i Kuiss nx. 14, iS. 



44 JOHN CALVIN 

lh«ir hearts have been quite discouraged? Indeed it was- 
alrcady considered by Hilary in his day as a grievous error. 
that people were absorbed in foolish admiration of the 
episcopal dignity, and did not perceive the dreadful mischief) 
concealed under that disguise. For this is his language:' 
" One thing I advi=e you — beware of Antichrist, for you 
have an improper attachment to walls; your veneration for 
the Church of God is misplaced on houses and buildings; 
you wrongly introduce under them the name of peace. Is 
there any doubt that they will be seats of Antichrist? I 
think monntains, woods, and lakes, prisons and whirlpools, 
less dangerous; for these were the scenes of retirement or 
banishment in which the prophets prophesied" But what 
excites the veneration of the multitude in the present d^ 
for their homed bishops, but the supposition that those a 
tho holy prelates of religion whom they see presiding o 
great cities? Away, (hen. with socb stnpid admiration. 
OS rather leave it to the Lord, since be alone " knoweifa t' 
that arc his,"* sometimes to remove from htnnan observatii 
all external knowledge of bis Chorcfa. I admit this to I 
dnadM jadgment of God on tbe earth; but if it be d 
by ifae onpiety of men, why do we attempt to resist I 
righteoiis veogeance of God? Tbus tbe Lord ( 
tRgratitnde of men in former ages; for, c 
their rcdstance to his truth, and extinction of the I 
bad pna tbon. be permitted them to be blinded by 3 
Moded br abextrd faheboods, and immcrged la profo 
dukness, so that there was do appearance of tbe < 
Cfanrdi left: Jtt, at tbe same tinM, in tbe midst of d 
and cTTOcs, be p rea em ed his scattered and concealed f 




Nor is this to be i 
Bw to save !■ all the confosioa of Bahykia, m 
Ae fiei7 fsraaoe. Bst hov ja a g g am it it 
Ae bxm of iKe Cbmrdi bf I knov boc wkat 



at bscc lest I sbooU ftctma t 
ttm^A. Tbe Ptop^ Aey saj. 



pc^vMcd tB^^ a 




TO THE INSTITUTES 



45 



sent tJie Church, and ought to be considered as the 
rh. Therefore they cannot err. How is this? — Because 
tiityare pastors of the Church, and consecrated to the Lord. 
Aad did not the pastoral character belong to Aaron, and 
the other rulers of Israel? Yet Aaron and his sons, after 
their designation to the priesthood, fell into error when they 
made the golden calf." According to this mode of reason- 
inf, why should not the four hundred prophets, who lied to 
Ahab, have represented the Church?" But the Church re- 
Biined on the side of Micaiah, solitary and despised as he 
was, and out of his mouth proceeded the truth. Did not 
those prophets exhibit both the name and appearance of the 
Qinrch, who with united violence rose up against Jeremiah, 
•tnd threatened and boasted, " the law shall not perish from 
the priest, nor counsel from the wise, nor the word from 
tile prophet?"* Jeremiah is sent singly against the whole 
mtUtitude of prophets, with a denunciation from the Lord, 
that the " law shall perish from the priest, counsel from the 
■wise, and the word from the prophet" " And was there not 
tiie like external respectability in the council convened by the 
diief priests, scribes, and Pharisees, to consult about putting 
Christ to death ?" Now, let them go and adhere to the ex- 
ternal appearance, and thereby make Christ and all the 
prophets schismatics, and, on the other hand, make the 
ministers of Satan instruments of the Holy Spirit. But if 
Aey speak their real sentiments, let them answer me sin- 
cerely, what nation or place they consider as the seat of the 
Church, from the time when, by a decree of the council of 
Basil, Eugenius was deposed and degraded from the pontifi- 
cate, and Amadeus substituted in his place. They cannot 
deny that the council, as far as relates to external forms, was 
a lawful one, and summoned not only by one pope, but by 
tvpo. There Eugenius was pronounced guilty of schism, 
rebellion, and obstinacy, together with all the host of cardi- 
nals and bishops who had joined him in attempting a disso- 
lution of the council. Yet afterwards, assisted by the favour 
of princes, he regained the quiet possession of his former 
dignity. That election of Amadeus, though formally made 



Sjer, 



46 



JOHN CALVm 



^ 



by the adthority of a general and holy synod, vanished intt 
smoke ; and he was appeased with a cardinal's hat, like a barfc* 
ing dog with a raorsel. From the bosom of those heretics 
and rebels have proceeded all the popes, cardinals, bishops, 
abbots, and priests ever since. Here they must stop. Fot 
to which parly will they give the title of the Church? Will 
they deny that this was a general council, which wanted 
nothing lo complete its external majesty, being tolemnlif 
convened by two papal bulls, consecrated by a prcBidinC 
legate of the Roman see, and well regulated in every point 
of order, and invariably preserving the same dignity tc 
last? Will they acknowledge Eugenius to be a schismatic 
with all his adherents, by whom they have all been conse 
crated? Either, therefore, let them give a different defiiii< 
tion of the form of the Church, or, whatever be their t 
her, we shall account them all schismatics, as having beaf 
knowingly and voluntarily ordained by heretics. But if tt 
had never been ascertained before, that the Church is 
confined to external pomps they would themselves afford 
as abundant proof of it, who have so long superciliously 
exhibited themselves to the world under the title of I' 
Church, though they were at the same time the deadb 
plagues of it. I speak not of their morals, and those tragicw 
exploits with which all their lives abound, since they profeME 
themselves to be Phariaeea, who are to be heard and ntA 
imitated. I refer to the very doctrine itself, on which th<4 
found their claim to be considered as the Church, If yoB 
devote a portion of your leisure. Sire, to the perusal of c 
writings, you will clearly discover that doctrine to be a fat* 
pestilence of souls, the firebrand, niin, and destruction at 
the Church. 

Finally, they betray great want of candour, by invidiously 
repeating what great commotion?, tumults, and contentions 
have attended the preaching of our doctrine, and what ef^ecU 
it produces tn many persons. For it is unfair to charge 1 
with those evils which ought to be attributed to the mallcC 
of Satan. It is the native property of the Divine wont 
never to make its appearance without disturbing Satan, 
rousing his opposition. This is a most certain and unequivo- 
cal criterion by which it is distinguished from false doctrine^ 



TO THE INSTITUTES 47 

ily broached when they are heard with general 

I received with applauses by the world. Thus, 

-, when all things were immerged in profound 

tc prince of this world amused and diverted 

U the generalitj- of mankind, and, like another 

:s, gave himself up to his ease and pleasures in 

ce; for what would he do but amuse and divert 

,1 the quiet and undisturbed possession of his 

But when the light shining from above dis- 

portion of his darkness — -when that Mighty One 

and assaulted his kingdom — ^then he began to 

f his wonted torpor, and to hurry on his armour. 

iideed, he stirred up the power of men to suppress 

lb by violence at its first appearance; and when this 

I ineffectual, he had recourse to subtlety. He made 

j^^H atabaptists, and other infamous characters, the instru- 

^^^B tM of exciting dissensions and doctrinal controversies, 

^^Hdfit view to obscure and finally to extinguish it And 

^^^^^He continues to attack it both ways ; for he endeavours 

^^^^Ht up this genuine seed by means of human force, and 

^^^^H Ume time tries every effort to choke it with his tares, 

^^^^H may not grow and produce fruit. But all his attempts 

^^W^w vain, if we attend to the admonitions of the Lord, 

who hath long ago made us acquainted with his devices, 

that we might not be caught by him unawares, and has 

anned us with sufficient means of defence against oil his 

ilKtaalts. But to charge the word of God with the odium of 

i seditions, excited against it by wicked and rebellious men, or 
of sects raised by imposters,— is not this extreme malignity? 
Vet it is not without example in former times. EHas was 
asked whether it was not he " that troubled Israel."" Christ 
I was represented by the Jews as guilty of sedition." The 
apostles were accused of stirring up popular commotions." 
Wherein does thi? differ from the conduct of those who, 
at the present day, impute to us all the disturbances, 
tumults, and contentions, that break out against us? But 
tlie proper answer to such accusations has been taught us by 
Elias, that the dissemination of errors and the raising of 
tumults is not chargeable on us. but on those who are resist- 

^^^^^ Elnp xnji. 17. "Luke ixiii. 1, j. "Acls xvii. 6, ladr. S. 



JOHN CALVIK 

ing the power of God. But as this one reply is sufficient 
to repress their temerity, so. on the other hand, we must 
meet the weakness of some persons, who are frequently dis- 
turbed with such offences, and become unsettled and waver- 
ing in their minds. Now, that they may not stumble and 
fall amidst this agitation and perplexity, let them know that, 
the apostles in their day experienced the same things that 
now befall us. There were " unlearned and unstable " men,. 
Peter says, who " wrested " the inspired writings of Paul' 
" to their own destruction."" There were despisers of God, 
who, when they heard that " where sin abounded grace did 
much more abound," immediately concluded, Let us " con- 
tinue in sin, that grace may abound." When they heard that 
the faithful were "not under the law," they immediately 
croaked, "^e will sin, because we are not under the law, 
but under grace."" There were some who accused hii 
an encourager of sin. Many false apostles crept it 
destroy the churches he had raised. " Some preached " the 
gospel "of envy and strife, not in sincerity." maliciously 
"supposing to add affliction to his bonds."" In some placet 
the Gospel was attended with little benefit. " All wert; 
seeking their own, not the things of Jesus Christ."" Otherl 
returned " like dogs to their vomit, and like swine to thcil 
wallowing in the mire."" Many perverted the liberty of tlH 
spirit into the licentiousness of the flesh. Many insinuatcil 
themselves as brethren, who afterwards brought the pioui 
into dangers. Various contentions were excited among t 
brethren themselves. What was to be done by the apostle! 
in such circumstances? Should they not have dissembled 
for a time, or rather have rejected and deserted that Gospel 
which appeared to be the nursery of so many disputes, the 
cause of so many dangers, the occasion of so many offences? 
But in such difficulties as these, their minds were relieved 
by this reflection that Christ is the "stone of stumbling a 
rock of offence."" " set for the fall and rising again oi 
many, and for a sign which shall be spoken against;""^ 
and armed with this confidence, they proceeded boldly 
through all the dangers of tumults and offences. The s 



aPct. U 



1 PebiLS. 



Phi!. 1. 15, ,_ 
"Luke ii. M> 



TO THE INSTITUTES 

consideration shotdd support us, since Paul declares it to 
be tht perpetual character of the Gospel, that it is a 
"savour gf death unto death in them that perish,'"* although 
It -^was rather given us to be the "savour of life unto life," 
and " the power of God to " the " salvation " of the faith- 
ful ;" which we also should certainly experience it to be, 
if v/e did not corrupt this eminent gift of God by our ingrat- 
itude, and prevert to our destruction what ought to be a 
principal instrument of our salvation. 

But I return to you. Sire. Let not your Majesty be at 
all moved by those groundless accusations with which our 
adversaries endeavour to terrify you; as that the sole ten- 
dency and design of this new Gospe! — for so they call it — 
is to furnish a pretext for seditions, and to gain impunity 
foy all crimes. "For God is not the author of confusion, 
but of peace;"" nor is "the Son of God," who came to 
" destroy the works of the devil, the minister of sin."** And 
it is unjust to charge us with such motives and designs, of 
^^rfaich we have never given cause for the least suspicion. 
Is it probable that we are meditating the subversion of 
kingdoms? — we, who were never heard to utter a factious 
word, whose lives were ever known to be peaceable and 
honest while we lived under your government, and who, 
even now in our exile, cease not to pray for all prosperity 
to attend yourself and your kingdom ! Is it probable that we 
are seeking an unlimited license to commit crimes with 
impunity? in whose conduct, though many things may be 
blamed, yet there is nothing worthy of such severe re- 
proach t Nor have we, by Divine Grace, profited so little in 
Ine Gospel, but that our life may be an example to our 
*^*lraclors of chastity, liberality, mercy, temperance, pa- 
tience, modesty, and every other virtue. It is an undeniable 
^act, that we sincerely fear and worship God, whose name 
We desire to be sanctified both by our life and by our death; 
and envy itself is constrained to bear testimony to the in- 
nocence and civil integrity of some of us, who have suffered 
the punishment of death for that very thing which ought to 
be accounted their highest praise. But if the Gospel be 



» Cor. u. ts, te. 






. C«L IL 17. 






JOHN CALVIK 

a. pretcKt for tumults, which has not yet happened In 
your kingdom; if any persons tnake the liberty of divine 
grace an excuse for the licentiousness of their vices, of 
whom I have known many, — there are laws and legal 
penalties, by which they may be punished according to 
their deserts; only let not the Gospel of God be reproached 
for the crimes of wicked men. You have now, Sire, the 
virulent iniquity of our calumniators laid before you in a 
sufficient number of instances, that you may not receive their 
ftteuaations with too credulous an ear. — I fear I have gone 
too much into the detail, as this preface already approaches 
the size of a full apology; whereas I intended it not to 
contain our defence, hut only to prepare your mind to attend 
to the pleading of our cause; for, though you are now 
averse and alienated from us, and even inflamed against us, 
we despair not of regaining your favour, if you will only 
once read with calmness and composure this our confession, 
which we intend as our defence before your Majesty. But, 
on the contrary, if your ears are so preoccupied with the 
whispers of the malevolent, as to leave no opportunity for 
the accused to speak for themselves, and if those outrageous 
iaries, with your connivance, continue to persecute with im- 
prisonments, scourges, tortures, confiscations, and flames, 
*e shall indeed, like sheep destined tfi the slaughter, be re- 
duced to the greatest extremities. Yet shall we in patience 
possess our souls, and wait for the mighty hand of the 
Lord, which undoubtedly will in lime appear, and show it- 
self armed for the deliverance of the poor from their afflic- 
tion, and for the punishment of their despisers, who now 
ftjcult In such perfect security. May the Lord, the King of 
kings, establish your throne with righteousness, and your 
kingdom wilh equity. 
Sasii, lit Avgust. 1S36. 



GENERAL SYLLABUS 

The design of the Author in these Christian Institutes 
is twofold, relating. First to the knowledge of God, as 
the way to attain a blessed immortality; and, in connection 



TO THE INSTITUTES 51 

1 and subservience to this. Secondly, to the knowledge 
of ourselves. 

In the prosecution of this design, lie strictly follows the 
method of the Apostles' Creed, as being most familiar to 
all Christians. For as the Creed consists of four parts, the 
first relating to God the Father, the second to the Son, the 
third to the Holy Spirit, the fourth to the Church; so 
the Author distributes the whole of this work into Four 
Books, corresponding respectively to the four parts of 
the Creed; as will clearly appear from the following 
detail :— 

I. The first article of the Creed relates to God the 
Father, and to the creation, conservation, and government 
of all things, which are included in his omnipotence. 

So the first book is on the knowledge of God, considered 
as the Creator, Preserver, and Governor of the universe at 
large, and every thing contained in it. It shows both 
the nature and tendency of the true knowledge of the 
Creator— that this is not learned in the schools, but that 
every man from his birth is self-taught it — Yet that the 
depravity of men is so great as to corrupt and extinguieli 
this knowledge, partly by ignorance, partly by wickedness; 
60 that it neither leads him to glorify God as he ought, nor 
conducts him to the attainment of happiness — And though 
diis internal knowledge is assisted by all the creatures 
around, which serve as a mirror to display the Divine per- 
fections, yet that man does not profit by it — Therefore, that 
to those, whom it is God's will to bring to an intimate and 
saving knowledge of himself, he gives his written word; 
which introduces observations on the sacred Scripture — 
That he has therein revealed himself; that not the Father 
only, but the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, united, is the 
Creator of heaven and earth; whom neither the knowledge 
innate by nature, nor the very beautiful mirror displayed to 
us in (he world, can, in consequence of our depravity, teach 
lu to know so as to glorify him. This gives occasion for 
treating of the revelation of God in the Scripture, of the 
unity of the Divine Essence, and the trinity of Persons.- — 
To prevent man from attributing to God the blame of his 
own voluntary blindness, the Author shows the state of 



52 JOHN CALVIN 

man at his creation, and treats of the image of God, fi^e- 
will, and the primative integrity of nature. — Having finished 
the subject of creation, he proceeds to the conservation and 
government of all things, concluding the first book with 
a full discussion of the doctrine of divine providence, 

II. But since man is fallen by sin from tlie state in 
which be was created, it is necessary to come to Christ 
Therefore it follows in the Creed, "And in Jesus Oirisl; 
his only Son our Lord," &c. 

So in the second book of the Institutes our Author treats 
of the knowledge of God as the Redeemer in Christ ; and 
having shown the fall of man, leads him to Christ the Media- 
tor. Here he slates the doctrine of original sin— that man 
possesses no inherent strength to enable him to deliver 
himself from sin and the impending curse, but that, on the 
contrary, nolliing can proceed from him, antecedently to 
reconciliation and renovation, but what is deserving of con- 
demnation — Therefore, that, man being utterly lost in him- 
self, and incapable of conceiving even a good thought by 
which he may restore himself, or perform actions acceptable 
to God, he must seek redemption out of himself, in Christ — 
That the Law was given for this purpose, not to confine its 
observers to itself, but to conduct them to Christ; which 
gives occasion to introduce an exposition of the Moral Law 
— That he was known, as the Author of salvation, to the 
Jews under the Law, but more fully under the Gospel, in 
which he is manifested to the world. — Hence follows the 
doctrine of the similiarity and difference of the Old 
New Testament, of the Law and Gospel. — It is next stated, 
that, in order to the complete accomplishment of salva- 
tion, it was necessary for the eternal Son of God to become 
man, and that he actually assumed a real human nature :- 
it is also shown how these two natures constitute one per- 
son — That the office of Christ, appointed for the acquisition 
and application of complete salvation by his merit and 
efficacy, is sacerdotal, regal, and prophetical. — Next follows 
the manner in which Christ executed his office, or actually 
performed the part of a Mediator, being an exposition of 
the Articles respecting his death, resurrection, and ascen- 
sion to heaven. — Lastly, the Author shows the truth and 



TO THE INSTITUTES 

propriety of affirming that Christ merited the grace of God 
a.nd salvation for us. 

HI. As long as Christ is separate from us, he profits us 
nothing. Hence the necessity of our being ingrafted into 
him, as branches into a vine. Therefore the doctrine con- 
cerning Christ is followed, in the third part of the Creed, by 
this clause, "I believe in the Holy Spirit," as being the 
bond of union between us and Christ. 

So in the third book our Author treats of the Holy Spirit, 
wrho unites us to Christ — and consequently of faith, by which 
vfc embrace Christ, with his twofold benefit, free righteous- 
ness, which he imputes to us, and regeneration, which he com- 
mences within us, by bestowing repentance upon us. — And 
to show that we have not the least room to giory in such 
faith as is unconnected with the pursuit of repentance, be- 
fore proceeding to the full discussion of justification, he 
treats at large of repentance and the continual exercise of 
it, which Christ, apprehended by faith, produces in us by 
bis Spirit. — He next fully discusses the first and chief bene- 
fit ot Christ when united to us by the Holy Spirit that is, 
justification — and then treats of prayer, which resembles the 
hand that actually receives those blessings to be enjoyed, 
Which faith knows, from the word of promise, to be laid 
up with God for our use.— But as all men are not united to 
Christ, the sole Author of salvation, by the Holy Spirit, who 
creates and preserves faith in us, he treats of God's eternal 
election; which is the cause that we, in whom he foresaw no 
6"o«d but what he intended freely to bestow, have been 
fa.-vored with the gift ot Christ, and united to God by the 
*^ectual call of the Gospel. — Lastly, he treats of complete 
''^generation, and the fruition of happiness; that is, the 
"J^al resurrection, towards which our eyes must be directed, 
^»nce in this world the felicity of the pious, in respect of 
*^'»joyraent, is only begun. 

iV. But as the Holy Spirit does not unite all men to 
CTlirist, or make them partakers of faith, and on those to 
*w-liom he imparts it he does not ordinarily bestow it with- 
'^Ut means, but employs for this purpose the preaching of 
ttie Gospel and the use of the sacraments, with the admin- 
istration of all discipline, therefore it follows in the Creed, 



» 



JOAN CALVm 

"I beliere in d»e Holy Catlioyc Chorch," wdom, iltliongli 
involved in eternal death, yet, in porsuMce of the grattiitoUt 
election, God has freely reconciled to himself in Christ, and 
made partakers of the Holy Spirit, that, being ingrafted ii 
Christ, they may hare commimton with him as their he 
whence flaws k perpettial remissioc of Bins, and a full 
restoration to eternal life. 

So in the fourth book our Author treats of the Chnrcb— • 
then of the means used by the Holy SjMril io effectually call- 
ing from spiritual death, and presetring the church — th* 
word and sacraments — baptism and the Lord's supper— 
which arc as it were Christ's rega! sceptre, by which hfc 
ramimences hia spiritual reign in the Church by the energy 
of his Spirit, and carries it forwards from day to day durii 
the present life, after the close of which he perfects it wil 
out those means. 

And as political institutions are the asylums of the ChnrcK' 
in this life, though civil government is distinct from tbA 
spiritual kingdom of Christ, oi'r Author instructs us respect-^ 
ing it as a signal blessing of God, which the Church ought 
to acknowledge with gratitude of heart, till we are called ottl 
of this transitory state to the heavenly inheritance, wherfr 
God will be all in all. 

This is the plan of the Institutes, which may be cofiiprt 
in the following brief summary: — 

Man, created originally upright, being afterwards nrin 
not partially, but totally, finds salvation out of himself, whdl^ 
in Oirist; to whom being united by the Holy Spirit, freely M 
stowed, without any regard of future works, he enjoys i 
him a twofold benefit, the perfect imputation of TighteotU 
ness, which attends him to the grave, and the commencem 
of sanctification, which he daily increases, till at length I 
completes il at the day of regeneration or resurrection < 
the body, so that in eternal life and the heavenly inheritanogj 
bis praises are celebrated for such stupendous mercy. 




INDICATION OF THE REVOLUTIONS 
OF THE HEAVENLY BODIES 

^^ BY NICOLAUS COPERNICUS (15+3) 

^H TO POPE PAUL III 

^^H' Can easily conceive, most Holy Father, that as soon 
^^B| >.s some people learn that in this book which I have 
^2^ written concerning the revolutions of the heavenly 
^^Bodies, I ascribe certain motions to the Earth, they will cry 
out at once that I and my theory should be rejected For I 
am not so much in love with my conclusions as not to weigh 
what others will think about them, and although I know 
tfiat lie meditations of a philosopher are far removed from 
Hie judgment of the laity, because his endeavor is to seek out 
ihe truth in all things, so far as this is permitted by God 
to the human reason, I still believe that one must avoid 
tiieories altogether foreign to orthodoxy. Accordingly, 
when I considered in my own mind how absurd a perform- 
ance it must seem to those who know that the judgment of 
many centuries has approved the view that the Earth re- 
mains fixed as center in the midst of the heavens, if I should, 
on the contrary, assert that the Earth moves; I was for a 
long time at a loss to know whether I should publish the 
commentaries which I have written in proof of its rnotion, 

Nieolans Copemicua was born in 1473 at Thorn in Wert Prussia, of > 
Polish failifr and a German mother. He ittcndcd ihe univerbily of Cracow 



Tbc book tthic 
itHitvtdby ill t, 



'raaenhurB, and 
rt of hisltfela 



d by CopMi 
] for K^ler, Galileo 



a eslablish the Ibeoij i 




CX)PEHNnCCS 

or wbctiKT h were not better u> foQow tlie eximple of d 
P3rthagorean5 and of some others, who were accustomed tO 
transmit the secrets of Philosoplqr not in writing but oraHj^ 
and only to tbetr reUtires and friends, as ttie letter front 
Lysis to Hipparcbos bears witness, Tbey did this, it s 
to me, not as some think, becaose of a certaia sel&sfa rcluo-, 
tance to give thdr ticws to tbe world, but in order that th« 
noblest truths, worked oat by tlie careful study of ^rcat mei^ 
should not be despised by those who are vexed at die idea of 
taking great pains with ai^ forms of literature except sucb 
as would be proStable, or by those w1»o, if they are driven 
to tbe study of Philosophy for its o«-n sake by the admoni- 
tions and the example of others, nevertheless, on accoont of 
their stupidity, hold a place among philosophers similar t 
that of drones among bees. Therefore, when I considered 
this carefully, the contempt which 1 had to fear becanse ol 
the novelty and apparent absurdity of my view, nearly i 
duced me lo abandon utterly the work I had begun. 

My friends, however, in spite of long delay and even 
resistance on my part, withheld me from this decision. Firs' 
among these was Nicolaus Schonberg, Cardinal of Capua^ 
distinguished in all branches of learning. Next to him c< 
my vety dear friend, Tidemann Giese, Bishop of Culm, « 
moat earnest student, as he is, of sacred and, indeed, of a" 
good learning. The latter has often urged me, at tim( 
even spurring me on with reproaches, to publish and at la^ 
bring to the light the book which had lain in my study n 
nine years merely, but already going on four times nint^ 
Not a few other very eminent and scholarly men made th« 
same request, urging that I should no longer through feai 
refuse to give out my work for the common benefit oi 
students of Mathematics. They said I should find that t' 
more absurd most men now thought this theory of minfl 
concerning the motion of the Earth, the more admiration 
and gratitude it would command after they saw in i* 
publication of my commentaries the mist of absurdity 
cleared away by most transparent proofs. So. infiuencet 
by these advisors and this hope, I have at length allowei 
my friends to publish the work, as they bad long besought 
me to do. 



DE REVOLUTIONTBUS 



57 



But perhaps Your Holiness will not so much wonder that 
I hve ventured to publish these studies of mine, after 
having taken such pains in elaborating them that I have not 
liesiiaied to commit to writing my views of the motion of 
iJie Earth, as you will be curious to hear how it occurred to 
tM to venture, contrary to the accepted view of mathema- 
ticians, and well-nigh contrary to common sense, to form a 
conception of any terrestrial motion whatsoever. Therefore 
I would not have it unknown to Your Holiness, that the 
only thing which induced me to look for another way of 
reckoning the movements of the heavenly bodies was that 
I knew that mathematicians by no means agree in their 
investigations thereof. For, in the first place, they are so 
much in doubt concerning the motion of the sun and the 
moon, that they can not even demonstrate and prove by 
observation the constant length of a complete year; and in 
the second place, in determining the motions both of these 
md of the five other planets, they fail to employ consistently 
one set of first principles and hypotheses, but use methods 
of proof based only upon the apparent revolutions and 
motions. For some employ concentric circles only ; others, 
eccentric circles and epicycles; and even by these means 
they do not completely attain the desired end. For, although 
those who have depended upon concentric circles have shown 
that certain diverse motions can be deduced from these, yet 
they have not succeeded thereby in laying down any sure 
Vtindpte, corresponding indisputably to the phenomena. 
These, on the other hand, who have devised systems of 
Wcentric circles, although they seem in great part to have 
Kdved the apparent movements by calculations which by 
these eccentrics are made to fit, have nevertheless intro- 
duced many things which seem to contradict the first prin- 
C^es of the uniformity of motion. Nor have they been able 
to discover or calculate from these the main point, which 
is the shape of the world and the fixed symmetry of its 
parts; but their procedure has been as if someone were to 
collect hands, feet, a head, and other members from various 
places, all very fine in themselves, but not proportionate to 
one body, and no single one corresponding in its turn to 
ethttTs. so that a moDSter rather than a, man would be 



SS OOPBRNIOtTS 

formed froin them. Thus in their process of i 
which they term a "method," they are found to have oi 
something essential, or to have included something foM 
and not pertaining to the matter in hand. This certa 
would never have happened to them if tliey had follin 
fixed principles ; for if the hypotheses they assumed were! 
false, all that resulted therefrom would be verified iodl 
tably. Those things which I am saying now may be obsci 
yet they will be made clearer in their proper place. 1 

Therefore, having turned over in my mind for a long i 
this uncertainty of the traditional mathematical methods 
calculating the motions of the celestial bodies, I begsa 
grow disgusted that no more consistent scheme of the mi 
ments of the mechanism of the universe, set up for i 
benefit by that best and most law abiding Architect of 
things, was agreed upon by philosophers who other wiew 
vestigate so carefully the most minute details of this wffl 
Wherefore I undertook the task of rereading the books o| 
the philosophers I could get access to, to see whether any i 
ever was of the opinion that the motions of the cele^ 
bodies were other than those postulated by the men H^ 
taught mathematics in the schools. And I found Q{ 
indeed, in Cicero, that Niceta perceived that the £d| 
moved; and afterward in Plutarch I found that some oa 
were of this opinion, whose words I have seen fit to qd 
here, that they may be accessible to all : — ■ 1 

" Some maintain that the Earth is stationary, hut Philol 
the Pythagorean says that it revolves in a circle about 
fire of the ecliplic, like the sun and moon. Heraklidei 
Pontus and Ekphantus the Pythagorean make the El| 
move, not changing its position, however, confined iai 
falling and rising around its own center in the manner a| 
wheel." 

Taking this as a starting point, I began to consider j 
mobility of the Earth; and although the idea seemed absd 
yet because I knew that the liberty had been granted^ 
others before me to postulate all sorts of little circles | 
explaining the phenomena of the stars, I thought I ^ 
might easily be permitted to try whether by postulating scjl 
motion of the Earth, more reliable conclusions 







DE REVOLUnONIBUS » 

reached regarding the revolution of the heavenly bodies, 
Ifia-n those of my predecessors. 

And so, after postulating movements, which, farther on 
in the book, I ascribe to the Earth, I have found by many 
snd Jong observations that if the movements of the other 
planets arc assumed for the circular motion of the Earth 
»I»<J are substituted for the revolution of each star, not only 
do their phenomena follow logically therefrom, but the 
relative positions and magnitudes both of the stars and all 
Iheir orbits, and of the heavens themselves, become so 
closely related that in none of its parts can anything be 
changed without causing confusion in the other parts and 
in the whole universe. Therefore, in the course of the work 
r have followed this plan; I describe in the first book all the 
positions of the orbits together with the movements which 
I ascribe to the Earth, in order that this bock might contain, 
as it were, the general scheme of the universe. Thereafter 
in. the remaining books, I set forth the motions of the other 
stars and of all their orbits together with the movement of 
the Earth, in order that one may see from this to what 
ccxicnt the movements and appearances of the other stars and 
Uteir orbits can be saved, if they are transferred to the move- 
ment of the Earth. Nor do I doubt that ingenious and 
learned mathematicians will sustain me, if they are willing 
to recognize and weigh, not superficially, but with that 
thoroughness which Philosophy demands above all things, 
those matters which have been adduced by me in this work 
to demonstrate these theories. In order, however, that both 
the learned and the unlearned equally may see that I do 
Dot avoid anyone's judgment, I have preferred to dedicate 
these lucubrations of mine to Your Holiness rather than to 
any other, because, even in this remote corner of the world 
^vhere I live, you are considered to be the most eminent man 
'Q dignity of rank and in love of all learning and even of 
mathematics, so that by your authority and judgment you 
can easily suppress the bites of slanderers, albeit the proverb 
hath it that there is no remedy for the bite of a sycophant 
If perchance there shall be idle talkers, who, though they 
*re ignorant of all mathematical sciences, nevertheless as- 
■uae the right to pass judgment on these things, and if they 



60 COPERNICUS 

should dare to criticise and attack this theory of mine be- 
cause of some passage of scripture which they have falsely 
distorted for their own purpose, I care not at all ; I will even 
despise their judgmetit as foolish. For it is not unknown 
that I^ctantius, oiherwise a famous writer but a poor mathe- 
matician, speaks most childishly of the shape of the Earth 
when he makes fun of those who said that the Earth has the 
form of a sphere. It should not seem strange then to zealous 
students, if some such people shall ridicule us also. Mathe- 
matics are written for mathematicians, to whom, if my opin- 
ion does not deceive me, our labors will seem to contribute 
something to the ecclesiastical state whose chief office Your 
Holiness now occupies; for when not so very long ago, 
tinder Leo X, in the Lateran Council the question of revis- 
ing the ecclesiastical calendar was discussed, it then remained 
unsettled, simply because the length of the years and months, 
and the motions of the sun and mor.n were held to have 
been not yet sufficiently delermined. Since that time, I have 
given my attention to observing these more accurately, urged 
on by a very distinguished man, Paul, Bishop of Fossom- 
brone, who at that time had charge of the matter. But what 
I may have accomplished herein I leave to the judgment of 
Your Holiness in particular, and to that of all other learned 
mathematicians ; and lest I seem to Your Holiness to promise 

I more regarding the usefulness of the work than I can per- 

liorm, I now pass to the work itself. 




PREFACE TO THE HISTORY 

OF THE REFORMATION 

IN SCOTLAND 

BY JOHN KNOX (C. 1566) 

To tile gentill readar, grace and peace from God the Father 
of our Lord Jesus Christ, with the perpetuall cncreasc 
of the Holy Sprcit. 

IT is not uiiknowen, Christeane Reader, that the same 
clud of ignorance, that long hath darkened many 
rcalmes under this accurssed kingdome of that Romane 
Antichrist, hath also owercovered this poore Realme; that 
idolatrie hath bein manteined, the bloode of innocentis hath 
bene sched, and Christ Jesus his eternall treuth hath bene 
abhorred, detested, and blasphemed. But that same God 
that caused light to schyne out of darknes, 10 the multitud 
of his mercyes, hath of long tyme opened the eis of some 
evJD within this Realme, to see the vanitie of that which then 
was universally embrased for trew religioun ; and hes gevin 
imto them strenth to oppone' thame selfis unto the same: and 
now, into these our last and moist* corrupt dayis, hath maid 
bis treuth so to triumphe amonges us, that, in despyte of 
Sathan, hipochrisye is disclosed, and the trew wyrshipping 
of God is manifested to all the inhabitants of this realme 
who eis Sathan blyndis not, eyther by thair fylthy lustes. 



Jobfl RCOK (ijr 
hiROTian, Ursa edu 
grct^tiaat st Fran 
lamed to Seollind 



■S-.S/.), 



e I«drr 



:d It Glaagow" UoVvi 

i 



sitr: ■» 



h KefoTi 



e HII bis d<rath n 



.0 ifie present day. His prefat 

Scottish (pelUng, gives loms indicai 
lenee, of bit lempei . .. ~ 



, ihrough vhich his 
: in the origioiil 



rds the Roman Church. 
Oppose. ■ Most. 



JOHN KNOX 

or eQis hy ambttioun, and tnsadabte covetousness, ' 
mack tbem irpung to' the power of God working by t 
worde. 

And bec&us we ar not ignorant what diverse bruittis' w 
dispersed oi os, the profeisoures of Jesus Christ wittitn tl 
realnie. in the begj-iuij-ng of our interprise, ordaur w 
tackin, that all our proceidingis should be committed to 
register; as that ihei war, by such as then paynfullie travail 
led boith by loiing and pen; and so was collected a j'lisl 
volume, (as after will appeir.) conteanyng thingis i 
ffome the fyftie-awght* ye:;r of God, till the arrival] of tl 
Quenis Majestic' furth of France, with the which the Co 
lectour and Writtar for that ijtoe was content, and ncv« 
roynded' further to have travailled in that kynd of writtiii 
But, after jnvocatioun of the name of God. and after co 
sultatioun with some faythfull, whai was thought by than 
expedient to advance Goddis glorie, and to edifie this p 
generatioun, and the posteritie to come, it was conclude^ 
that faythfull rehersall, should be maid of such personagoi 
. as God had maid instruiiientis of his glorie, by opponyof 
of thame selfis to manifest abuses, superstitioun, and idoN 
atrie; and albeit thare be no great nombcr, yet ar thei a 
then the Colkctour wold liave looked for at the begynnynft 
and thairfoir is the volume somewhat enlarged abuif hi 
expectatioun : And yit, in tlie begynnyng, mon' we c 
all the gentill Readaris, not to look' of us such ane HistOlJF 
as shall expresge all thingis that have occurred within thf| 
Realme, during the tyme of this terrible conflict that KM 
bene betuix the sanctes" of God and these bloody i 
who dame to thame selves the titill of clargie, and to b 
authoritie ower the saules of men; for, with the Pollicey/ 
mynd we to meddill no further then it hath ReligioUl 
mixed with it. And thairfoir albeit that many thingv 
which wer don be omitted, yit, yf we invent no leys," V 
think our selves hlamless in that behalf. Of one oft* 
(diing) we mon' foirwarne the discreat Readaris, which il 
that thei be not ofEended that the sempill treuth be spokl 

■Heain. •Emnors. "7. e., IJS8. 

•Mary, Qa»eii of Scots, arrived in Seolland, Aiis. 19, tjei. 

•iDlendcd. • Must. • Expecc " Saints. 

*lCiiFil or Slate politics. "lies. 



To THE HISTORY OF THE REPOEMATIOH 63 

without partialitie ; for seing that of men we neyther hunt 
lor reward, nor yitt for vane glorie, we lilill pass by the ap- 
{irobadoun of such as seldome judge weill of God and of 
Ub workis, Lett not tiiairfoar the Readir wonder, albeit 
that our s^Ie vary and speik diverslie of men. according 
as thei have declared tharaeselves sometymes ennemymes and 
eometymes freindis, sometymes fervent, sometymes cold, 
sometymes constant, and sometymes changeable in the cause 
of God and of his holy religioun: for, in this our simplicitie, 
•n suppoise that the Godlie shall espy our purpose, which 
is, that God may be praised for his mercy Kirhawin," this 
present age may be admonished to be thankfull for Goddis 
benefittis offcrred, and the posferilie to cum may be in- 
structed how wonderouslie hath the liglit of Christ Jesus 
prevailled against darlcness in this last and most corrupted 




A LETTER OF THE ADTHOaS 
EXPOUNDING HIS WHOLE INTENTION I 
COUKSE OF THIS WORKE: WHICH FOR THAT IT 
CilVETH GREAT LIGHT TO THE HEADER, FCW TH8 
BETTER UNDERSTANDING IS HEREUNTO ANNEXED 

To the Right Noble, and Valorous, Sir Walter Rati 
Knight, Lord Wardein of the Stanneryes, and 1 
Majesties Liefetenaiint of the County of Comewa^n 

SIR, knowing how doubtfully all allegories may be ^ 
strued, and this booke of mine, which I havef 
tituled the Faery Queene, being a continued allefl 
or darke conceit, I have thought good, as well for avo^ 
of gealous opinions and misconstnictions, as also for 3 
better hght in reading thereof, (being so by you C! 
manded,) to discover unto you the general intention.; 
meaning, which in the whole course thereof I have fl 
ioned, without expressing of any particular purpose! 
by accidents therein occasioned. The generall end t' 
fore of all the booke is to fashion a gentler 
ind Spmaer ina born (n LonJon about 

publisherf in T;po, i 
\xr b«d planned 




«0 THE FAERIE QUEEN 

per9on in vcrtuous and gentle discipline : which for that 
I conceived shoulde be most plausible and pleasing, being 
coloured with an historical! fiction, the which the most 
part of men delight to read, rather for variety of matter 
then for profite of die ensample, I chose the historye of 
King Arthure, as most fitte for the excellency of his per- 
son, being made famous by many mens former workes, 
and also furthest from the daunger of envy, and suspition 
of present time. In which I have followed all the antique 
poets historical! : first Homere, who in the persons of 
Agamemnon and Ulysses bath ensampled a g^od governour 
and a vertuous man, the one in his Ilias, the other in his 
Odysseis; then Virgil, whose like intention was to doe in 
the person of ^neas; after him Ariosto comprised lliem 
both in his Orlando; and lately Tasso dissevered them 
againe, and formed both parts in two persons, namely that 
part which they in philosophy call Ethice, or \-ertues of a 
private man, coloured ia his Rinaido; the other named 
Pnlitice in his Godfredo, By cnsampie of which excellente 
poets, I labour to pourtraict in Arthure, before he was king, 
the image of a brave laiight, perfected in the twelve private 
morall vertues, as Aristotle hath devised, the which is the 
purpose of these first twelve bookes : which if I tinde to 
be wtll accepted, 1 may be perhaps encoraged to frame the 
other part of polliticke vertues in his person, after that hce 
«me to be king. To some, I know, tliis methodc will 
teeme displeasaunt, which had rather have good discipline 
ifclivered plainly in way of precepts, or sermoned at large, 
19 they use, then thus clowdily enwrapped in allegoricall 
devises. But such, me seeme, should be satisfide with the 
use of these dayes, seeing all things accounted by their 
'howes, and nothing esteemed of, that is not delightful! 
aid pleasing to commune sence. For this cause is Xenophon 
preferred before Plato, for that the one, in the exquisite 
<leplh of his judgement, formed a commune welth such as 
it should he, but the other in the person of Cyrus and 
tlie Persians fashioned a govemeraent, such as might best 
^: so much more profitable and gratious is doctrine by 
ttaample, then by rule. So have I laboured to doe in the 
person o£ Arthure: whoma I conceive, after liia long edu- 

t3) HC— Vol.89 




EDMUND SPENSER 



I 
I 



cation by Timon, to whom he was by Merlin deli 
to be brought up, so soone as he was borne of the LsiJ)' 
Igrayne, to have scene in a dream or vision tlie Faeiy 
Queen, with whose excellent beauty ravished, he awaldnj 
resolved to seeke her out, and so being by Merlin ann« 
and by Timon thoroughly instructed, he went to seeke i 
forth in Faeryc Land. In that Faery Queene I mea 
glory in my general! intention, but in my particular 1 
the most excellent and glorious person of i 
the Queene, and her kingdome in Faery Laii£ 
And yel, in some places els, I doc otherwise shadow heEi' 
For considering she beareth two persons, the one of ^ 
most royall queene or empresse, the other of a most \ 
tuous and beautiful lady, this latter part in some place 
doe expresse in Belphoebe, fashioning her name accordin| 
your owne excellent conceipt of Cj-nthia, (Phsebe an 
Cynthia being both names of Diana.) So in the perso 
of Prince Arthure I sette forth magnificence in particuIUi 
which vertue, for that (according to Aristotle and t 
rest) it is the perfection of all the rest, and cont^netl 
in it them all, therefore in the whole course I mention ll 
deedes of Arthure applyable to that vertue which I i 
of in that booke. But of the xii. other vertues I ] 
xii. other knights the patrones. for the more varied a 
the history: of which these three bookes contayn thm> 
The first of the ICnight of the Redcrosse, in whome 1 
expresse holynes: The seconde of Sir Guyon, i 
I sette forth temperaunce. The third of Britomartis, » 
lady knight, in whome I picture chastity. But because 
the beginning of the whole worke seemeth abrupte s 
as depending upon other antecedents, it needs that ye k 
the occasion of these three knights several! adventure 
For the methode of a poet historical is not such as of a 
historiographer. For an historiographer discourseth of *' 
fayres orderly as they were donne, accounting as well tB 
times as the actions; but a poet thrusteth into the midde* 
even where it most concerneth him, and there recourai*' 
to the things forepaste, and divining of thinges to t 
maketh a pleasing analysis of all. 
The beginning therefore of my history, if it were to 1 



TO THE FAERIB QUEEN 

told by an hiBtoriographer, should be the twelfth booke, 
irWch Is the last; where I devise that the Faery Queene 
fept her annual) feaste xii. dayes, uppon which xii. ecv- 
wall dayts, the occasions of the xii. several adventure* 
iapned, which being undertaken by xii. severall knights, 
8K in these xii. books severally handled and discoursed. 
Tht first was this. In the beginning of the feast, ther^ 
presented him selfe a tall clownish younge man, who, fall- 
ing before the Queen of Faries, desired a boone (as tht 
Mnner then was) which during that feast she might not 
ffuse: which was that hee might have the atchievement 
of any adventure, which during that feaste should happen: 
Uiat being graunted, he rested him on the floore, unfitt* 
through his rusticity for a better place. Soone after en* 
f^ed a faire ladye in mourning weedes, riding on a whit* 
Vise, with a dwarte behind her leading a warlike steed, 
Oiat bore the armes of a knight, and his speare in thk 
^warfcs hand. Shee, falling before the Queene of Faer- 
ies, complayned that her father and mother, an ancient 
king and queene, had bene by an huge dragon many years 
&hut Up in a brasen castle, who thence suffred them not 
to yssEW: and therefore besought the Faery Queene to 
assygnt her some one of her knights to take on him Aat 
exptoyt. Presently that clownish person, upstarting, dv 
■ired that adventure: whereat the Queene much wonder^ 
ing, and the lady much gainesaying, yet he earnestly itii' 
portuned his desire. In the end the lady told him, that 
unlcsse that armour which she brought would serve him 
(that is, the armour of a Christian man specified by Saint 
Paul, vi. Ephes.), that he could not succeed in that enter- 
prise: Which being forthwith put upon him with dewe furni- 
tures thereunto, he seemed the goodliest man in al that 
company, and was well liked of the lady. And eftesoonea 
taking on him knighthood, and mounting on that straunge 
courser, he went forth with her on that adventure: where 
tKginneth the first booke vz, 

A ffentle knight wai priddnf on the pU;De, &C. 

The second day ther came in a palmer bearing an infant 

with bloody hands, whose parents he complained to have 




BDMUND SPENSER 

bene slaya hy an enchauoteresse called Acrasia: and tbet 
fore craved of the Faery Queene, to appoint him somi 
knight to performe that adventure; which being assigned 
to Sir Guyon, he presently went forth with that 
palmer: which is the beginning of the second booke i 
the whoJe subject thereof. The third day there came 
a. groomc, who complained before the Faery Queene, 1 
a vile enchaunter, called Busirane, bad in band a most 
faire lady, called Amoretta, whom he kept in most srievoiM 
torment, because she would not yield him the pleasur^ 
of her body. Whereupon Sir Scudamour, the 
of that lady, presently tooke on him that adventure 
But being unable to performe it by reason of the harj 
enchaimtments, after long sorrow, in the end met w ' " 
firitomartis, who succoured him, and reskewed his love. 

But by occasion hereof, many other adventures are 
terraedled. but rather as accidents then intendments: as t 
love of Briioraart, the overthrow of Marinell, the miser] 
of Florimell, the vertuousnes of Belphoebe, the lasciviousnd 
of Hellenora, and many the like. [ 

Thus much, Sir, I have briefly overronne, to direct yoiJ 
understanding to the wel-head of the history, that frta 
thence gathering the whole intention of the conceit, ; 
may, as in a handfull, gripe al the discourse, which othet 
wise may happily secme tedious and confused. So humb^ 
craving the continuance of your honourable favour toward 
me, and ih' eternall establishment of your happines, I humbi 
take leave. 

23. January, 1589. I 
Yours most humbly a^ectionate, 
Ed. Spenser. 



^B PREFACE TO THE 

P HISTORY OF THE WORLD 

I BV SIR WALTER RALEIGH (161+) 



HOW unfit and how unworthy a choice I have made 
of myself, to undertake a work of this mixture, 
mine own reason, though, exceeding weak, hath 
SofiSdendy resolved me. For had it been begotten then with 
my first dawn of day, when the Hglit of common knowledge 
•>^gan to open itself to my younger years, and before any 
^"'oimd received either from Fortune or Time, I might yet 
"fell have doubted that the darkness of Age and Death would 
have covered over both It and Me, long before the perform- 
mcx. For, beginning with the Creation, I have proceeded 
with the History of the World; and lastly purposed (some 
te-w sallies excepted) to confine my discourse with this our 
renowned Island of Great Britain. I confess that it had 
better sorted with my disability, the better part of whose 
times are run out in other travails, to have set together (as 
I could) the unjointed and scattered frame of our English 
affairs, than of the universal : in whom, had there been no 
Mlier defect (who am ail defect) than the time of the day, 
rt Were enough; the day of a tempestuous life, drawn on to 
Il>e very evening ere I began. But those inmost and soul- 
pisrcing wounds, which are ever aching while uncured ; vrith 
the desire to satisfy those few friends, which I have tried by 
lie fire of adversity, the former enforcing, the latter per- 

the life of Ralagh win he fouad, g 



prefixed to his " 
travels." His " 





SIR WALTER RALEIGH 

suading; have caused me to make my thoughts legible, a 
myself the subject of every opinion, wise or weak. 

To the world I present them, to which 1 am nothing i 
debted: neither have others thai were, (Fortune cbaogiog 
sped much better in any age. For prosperity and adversil 
have evermore tied and untied vulgar a£Eections. And i 
wc see it ill experience, that dogs do always bark at t' 
they know not, and that it js their nature to accompany a 
another in those clamors: so it is with the inconsiderate mi 
titude ; who wanting that virtue which we call honesty in i 
men, and that especial gift of God which we call charity it 
Christian men, condemn without hearing, and wound i ' ' 
out oiTence given: led thereunto by uncertain report on!;^ 
which his Majesty truly acknowledgeth for the author of iQ 
lies. "Blame no man," saith Siracides, "before thou havC 
inquired the matter: understand first, and then rcfon 
righteously. 'Rumor, res sine teste, sine judice, maligna 
fallax'; Rumor is without witness, without judge, roaliciott 
and deceivable," This vanity of vulgar opinion it was, th 
gave St. Augustine argument to affirm, tiiat he feared t 
praise of good men, and detested that of the eviL Ai 
herein no man hath given a better rule, than this of Seneca 
"Conscienti^ satisfaciamus : nihil in famam laborema 
Bequatur vcl mala, dura bene merearis." " Let us satisfy 
own consciences, and not tronble ourselves with fame: bft 
never so ill, it is to be despised so we deserve well." 

For myself, it I have in anything served my Country, ( 
prized it before my private, the general acceptation can ylel 
me no other profit at this time, than doth a fair sunshine d 
to a sea-man after shipwreck; and the contrary no oth 
harm, than an outrageous tempest after the port attained. 
know that I lost the love of many, for my fidelity towan 
Her,' whom I must still honor in the dust; though furtb 
than the defence of her excellent person, I never persecutfli 
»ny man. Of those that did it, and by what device they d 
it He that is the Supreme Judge of all the world, hath tak< 
the account: so as for this kind of suffering, I mtist i" 
with Seneca, " Mala opinio, bene parU, delectat"' 



I it He that i 

^^H the account 



An ill opiniuD, hoDorsbly BCquirei 



TO THE HISTOET OF THK ■WORLD 

Al for otber men; if there be any that have made thcm- 
teive fathers of that fame which hath been begotten for 
Hem, I can neither envy at such their purchased glory, nor 
nnch lament mine own mishap in that kind; but content 
injsclf to say with Virgil, "Sic vos non vobis,'" in many 
psrticulars. To labor otlicr satisfaction, were an effect of 
ktDzy, not of hope, seeing it is not trutli, but opinion, that 
ao travel the world without a passport. For were it othcr- 
wiie; and were there not as many internal forms of the 
mind, as there arc externa! figures of men; there were then 
wne possibility to persuade by the mouth of ne advocate, 
I tren equity alone. 

But such is tlic multiplying and extensive virtue of dead 
earth, and of that breath-giving life which God hath cast 
upon time and dust, as that among those that were, of whom 
ft read and hear; and among those that are, whom we see 
iliid converse with; everyone hath received a several picture 
of face, and everyone a diverse picture of mind; everyone 
■ form apart, everyone a fancy and cogitation differing: 
there being nothing wherein Nature so much iriumpheth as 
in dissimilitude. From whence it cometh that there is found 
■0 {Treat diversi^ of opinions; so strong a contrariety of in- 
dinationi; so many natural and unnatural; wise, foolish, 
manly, and childish affections and passions tn mortal men. 
For it is not the visible fashion and shape of plants, and of 

Sable creatures, that makes the difference of working 
one, and of condition in the other; bat (he form 
d. 
ftough it hath pleased God to reserve the art of 
g men's thoughts to himself: yet, as the fruit tells the 
name of the tree; so do the outvrard works of men (so far 
as their cogitations are acted) give us whereof to guess at 
the rest Nay. it were not hard to express the one by the 
other, very near the life, did not craft in many, fear in the 
most, and the world's love in all, teach every capacity, 
according to the compass it hath, to qualify and make over 
their inward deformities for a time. Though it be also true, 
"Nemo potest diu personam ferre fictam: cito in naturam 
suam residunt, quibus veritas non subest": "Ko man cau 

■ " So jou [Mt to jrouicelvM." 




72 SIR WALTER RAIAXOH 

long cotitinue masked in a counterfeit behavior: the thin 
that are forced for pretences having no ground of ti 
cannot long dissemble their own natures." Neither can 
man (saith Plutarch) so change himself, but that his i 
may be sometimes seen at his tongue's end. 

In this great discord and dissimilitude of 
creatures, if we direct ourselves to the multitude; "or 
honestK rei malus judex est vulgus" : " The common p 
arc evil judges of honest things, and whose wisdom ( 
Ecclesiastes) is to be despised": if to the better sort, everj- 
understanding hath a peculiar judgment, by wliich it I 
censureth other men, and valueth itself. And therefore unta 
me it will not seem strange, though I find these my worth- 
less papers torn with rats: seeing the slothfid censurers 
all ages have not spared to tax the Reverend Fathers of th 
Church, with ambition; the severest men to themselves, witl 
hypocrisy; the greatest lovers of justice, with populariqr;: 
and those of the truest valor and fortitude, with vain-gloty. 
But of these natures which lie in wait to find fault, and K 
turn good into evil, seeing Solomon complained long since: 
and that the very age of the world renders it every day 
after other more malicious ; I must leave the professors to 
their easy ways of reprehension, than which there is nothing, 
of more facility. 

To me it belongs in the first part of this Preface, follow*, 
ing the common and approved custom of those who have 
left the memories of time past to after ages, to give, as nea 
as I can, the same right to history which they have done. 
Yet seeing therein I should but borrow other men's vrotis, 
I will not trouble the Reader with the repetition. True ft 
is that among many other benefits for which it hath been 
honored, in this one it triumpheth over all human knowledge^ 
that it hath given us life in our understanding, since the 
world itself had life and beginning, even to this day: ycf^ 
it hath triumphed over time, which besides it nothing bitt 
eternity hath triumphed over: for it hath carried our knowl' 
edge over the vast and devouring space of many thousand* 
of years, and given so fair and piercing eyes to our mind; 
that we plainly behold living now (as if we had lived then) 
that great world, " Magni Dei sapiens opus," " The wiM 




TO THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD 

work (saith Hermes) of a great God," as it was then, when 
but new lo itself. By it (I say) it is, that we live in the 
VC17 time when it was created : we behold how it was gov- 
l;how it was covered with waters, and again repeopled; 
how kings and kingdoms have flourished and fallen, and for 
ind piety God made prosperous; and for what 
vice and defonnity he made wretched, both the one and the 
Other, And it is not the least debt which we owe unto his- 
tory, that it hath made us acquainted with our dead an- 
cestors : and, out of the depth and darkness of the earth, 
delivered us their memory and fame. In a word, we may 
gather out of history a policy no less wise than eternal; by 
the comparison and application of other men's fore-passed 
miseries with our own like errors and ill deservings. But it 
is neither of examples the most hvcly instruction, nor the 
words of the wisest men, nor the terror of future tor- 
ments, that hath yet so wrought in our blind and stupified 
minds, as to make us remember, that the infinite eye and 
wisdom of God doth pierce through all our pretences; as to 
make us remember, that the justice of God doth rctjuire none 
other accuser than our own consciences: which neither the 
false beauty of our apparent actions, nor all the formality, 
which (to pacify the opinions of men) we put on, can in 
any, or the least kind, cover from his knowledge. And so 
much did that heathen wisdom confess, no way as yet quali- 
^d by the knowledge of a true God. If any (saith Euripi- 
•Jes) " having in his life committed wickedness, thinks he can 
■"de it from the everlasting gods, he thinks not well." 

To repeat God's judgments in particular, upon those of all 
"fSTees, which have played with his mercies would require a. 
•^Iiame apart: for the sea of examples hath no bottom. The 
■"arks, set on private men, are with their bodies cast into the 
'irth; and their fortunes, written only in the memories of 
'"Ose that lived with them: so as they who succeed, and 
"^-V-e not seen the fall of others, do not fear their own faults. 
p*z»<3's judgments upon the greater and greatest have been 
'^"^t to posterity; first, by those happy hands which the Holy 
'^"«>st hath guided; and secondly, by their virtue, who have 
S^trhered the acta and ends of men mighty and remarkable 
*)^ the world. Now to point far oS, and to speak of the con- 



i 



STB WALTER RALKIGH 



vmSen otaikgAs intodnils; for ambatioD: or of the grtftN 
Mt aad Btaat gtorioos Idn^ wbo hare gnawn the grass oM 
dw tardi witb beam for pride and ingntitwle towards God ^ 
or of that wi»e working of Ptoraoh, wtaen he slew the in" 
ftats of Israel, ere they had recovered thdr cradles: or o^^ 
the policT of Jez«beL in eoTcr in g the murder of Nabolb b 
s trial of the Elden, according to the Law, with many fboD^ 
Mods of the tike: what were it other, than to make an hope- 
lea proof, that far-off examples would not be left to Omi 
Mne far-olf respects, as heretofore? For wbo bath not: 
ohscrvcd. what labnr, practice, peril, bloodshed, and cmdty, , 
At IciRgi and princes of the world have ondergone, Cxer- 
dMd, taken on them, and comniitted; to make themselves' 
aod Aeir issaes iiia=ters of the world? And jret hath Babjr- 
lon, Persia, Sjria, Ikfacedon, Carthage, Rome, and the tes^ , 
no fnrit, no flower, grass, nor leaf, springing apon the face 
ol die earth, of those seeds: no, their very roots and rUiBi' 
do hardhr remain. " Omnia quae manu homir.um facta soit^ 
*il manu hominum evertnntor, rcl stando ct durando defi- 
efiBt"; " ATI that the hand of man can make, is either over* 
tamed by the hand of man, or at length l^ standing and 
continuing ccosuroed," The reasons of whose rains, are 
diTcrtely given by those that ground their opinions on s 
end causes. AH kingdoms and states have fallen (say the 
politicians) by outward and forei^ force, or by inward 
n^ligence and dissension, or by a third cause arising from 
both. Others observe, that the greatest have sunk down 
nnder their own weight: of which Livy hath a touch: " 
crevit. ut magnitudine laboret sua" :• Others, That the divine 
providence fwhich Cratippus objected to Pompey) hath i 
down the date and period of every estate, before their first 
foundation and erection. But hereof I will give mj-aelf a 
day over to resolve. 

For seeing the first books of the following stofy, have 
tmdertaken the discourse of the first kings and kingdoms; 
and that it Is impossible for the short life of a Preface, to 
travel after, and overtake far-off antiquity, and to judge of 
I will, for the present, examine what profit hath been 
gathered by our own Kings, and their neighbour princes : who 
Ba lBcr«Mcd. «]th the r«>atc tint ke U opprcved b; hU crotai 



^^H gathered 
^^fe •-Ball 




To THB HISTORY OP THB WORLD 



7S 



bi'risg behcM, both in divine and human letters, the succcsB 
of infidelity, injustice, and cruelty; have (notwithstanding) 
pJanted after the same pattern. 

True ft is, that the judgments of all men arc not agreeable; 
nor (which is more strange) the affection of any one man 
stirred up alike with examples of like nature: but every one 
is touched most, with that which most nearly seemeth to 
touch his own private, or otherwise best suiteth with his 
apprehension. But the judgmenis of God are forever un- 
changeable: neither is He wearied by the long process of 
dme, and won to give Hla blessing in one age, to that which 
He hath cursed in another, Wherefor those that are wise, 
or whose wisdom if it be not great, yet is true and well 
grounded, will be able to discern the bitter fruits of ir- 
rehgious policy, as well among those examples that are 
found in ages removed far from the present, as in those of 
latter times. And that it may no less appear by evident 
proof, than by asseveration, that ill doing hath always been 
attended with ill success; I will here, by way of preface, 
tun over some examples, which the work ensuing hath not 
fcached. 

Among our kings of the Norman race, we Iiavc no sooner 
passed over the violence of the Norman Conquest, than we 
encounter with a singular and most remarkable example of 
God's justice, upon the children of Henry the First For 
that King, when both by force, craft, and cruelty, he had 
dispossessed, overreached, and lastly made blind and 
destroyed his elder brother Robert Duke of Normandy, to 
make his own sons lords of this land: God cast them all, 
male and female, nephews and nieces (Maud excepted) into 
the bottom of the sea, with above a hundred and fifty others 
that attended them; whereof a great many were noble and 
of the King dearly beloved. 

To pass over the rest, till we come to Edward the 
Second; it is certain, that after the murder of that King, 
the issue of blood then made, though it had some times of 
stay and stopping, did again break out, and that so often and 
in such abundance, as all our princes of the masculine race 
(very few excepted) died of the same disease. And al- 
though the young years of Edward the Third made his 



SIR WALTES RALBKm 

kaemieAge of that horrible £act ao iBcn 61211 m sp ido u tfy ' 
ya in thai he afterwards cattsed hU own tmde, tbe Earl of 
Kent, to die, for no other offence tlua die desire of his 
brother's redemption, whom the Eul as tfacn supposed to be 
linag: the King tnakiog that to be ticaud in his tnnclev 
which was indeed treason in htnudi, (had his node's mtel- 
licence been true) this I saj made il manifest, that be waa 
DOI ignorant of what had past, nor srcailj dotroos to have 
bad it otbcTM-ise, though be caused Mortimer to die for tbe 

MOM. 

Thti cnielty the secret and tmseardtaUe judgment of Gc*d 
revenged on the grandchild of Edward the Third: and so 
it fell out, even to the last of that line, that in the second oC 
Ibird descent tfaey were aO buried imder Hie ruins of tho^^ 
InUdincs, of which the tnortar had been tempered wi«J> 
tasoecot blood. For Richard the Second, who saw bo*^ 
hi» Trcaturen, his Chancellor, and his Steward, with dire^^ 
•ffxri of bis counsellors, sotne of tbem slai^htered hj tf^*^ 
people, otben in hb absence executed by his enemies, j^^^ 
be ahr^i took himsdf for orer-wise to be taught by er^" 
— pl<i. The Earls of Hontingdoo and Kent, Montagu aiK.'' 
tpttmr, who thonght tbemsdves as great politicians i:^ 
0me d^ at oiliers bave done in these: boping to plea&-' 
0m KfalC- *"'' C* Mcttre tbemsdves, bj tbe mnnler o 
CfaaecMcr; died loon after, with manr other their ; 
%tnMM. Vj tbe like violent hands; and far more shamefi 
Mm* f^ that dnkc. And as for the King fannself ( who ii 
fOlgarrf of nanr deeds, onworthj of his greatness, cannot b _ 

Ml— 111. 8S tbe £sarowing bimsdf t^ breach of faith-^^^ 
^kmun, imrdoot, and patents) : be *»as in the prime of hi=t -*^ 
fmlk 4t90&td, and nnirdered bjr his consin-german an(==^ 
^timd, Bcarj ot Lancaster, afterward; Hcnr7 tbe Fourth. — 

TMa Ki«C> wbo« title was weak, and his obtaining th^^f^ 
Cmm mftoroos; vbo brake faith with tbe lords at bi^^' 
Ifliiiiflf; pfoteatfaif to intend onh- the 1 ec u v er y of bis piopeu^- 
MkwfiUntt, Walcc fiuth with Richard himself; and 1 
MA wM aO tte kvigdom in Parliansent. to whom he s 
MMtdtetfcpMcdKiOff should lire. After that he had enjo] 
iMe mUm tomt few years, and in that time had been 
•pM aS fMn by faia nbiects, and ncrer free from caD-— 



irO THE HISTORY OP THE WORLD 

S^racies and rebellions: he saw (if souls immortal see and 
discern anythings after the bodies' death) his grandchild 
Henry the Sixth, and his son the Prince, suddenly and with- 
out mercy, murdered; the possession of the Crown (for 
which he had caused so much blood to be poured out) 
transferred from his race, and by the issues of his enemies 
worn and enjoyed: enemies, whom by his own practice he 
supposed that he had left no less powerless, than the suc- 
cession of the Kingdom questionless; by entailing the same 
upon his own issues by Parliament. And out of doubt, 
human reason could have judged no otherwise, but that 
these cautious provisions of the father, seconded by the 
valor and signal victories of his son Henry the Fifth, had 
buried the hopes of every competitor, under the despair of 
all reconquest and recovery. I say, that human reason 
might so have judged, were not this passage of Casaubon also 
true ; " Dies, hora, momentum, evertendis domination ib us suf- 
' ficit, quae adamantinis credebantur radicibus esse fundatae:" 
"A day, an hour, a moment, is enough to overturn the things, 
that seemed to have been founded and rooted in adamant." 
Now for Henry the Sixth, upon whom the great storm 
of his grandfather's grievous faults fell, as it formerly 
had done upon Richard the grandchild of Edward: al- 
thoug:h he was generally esteemed for a gentle and innocent 
prince, yet as he refused the daughter of Armagnac, of the 
House of Navarre, the greatest of the Trinces of France, 
to whom he was affianced (by which match he might have 
defended his inheritance in France) and married the daugh- 
ter of Anjou, (by which he lost all that he had in France) 
So in condescending to the unworthy death of his uncle of 
Gloucester, the main and strong pillar of the House of 
I.ancaster; he drew on himself and this kingdom the great- 
est joint-loss and dishonor, that ever it sustained since the 
3^ornian Conquest. Of whom it may truly be said which 
a counsellor of his own spake of Henry the Third of France • 
"Qu'il estait une fort gentile Prince; mais son reignc est 
advenu en une fort mauvais temps:" "He was a very 
gentle Prince; but his reign happened in a very unfortunate 
season." 

It is true that Buckingham and Suffolk were the practicciB 



fllR WALTER RALEIGH 

ud CantriTCrs of the Duke's death : Buchinghani u»d SoffoHt 
becauM tlie Duke gave instructions to their authority, which 
otherwise under the Queen had beea absolute; the Quem 
in respect of her personal wound, " spretaeque injuria for- 
■M,"* because Gloucester dissuaded her marriage. But the 
fruit was answerable to the seed ; the success to tha counsel 
For after tlie cutting down of Gloucester, York grew up so 
fast, as he dared to dispute his right both by argunacnts and 
»rms; in which quarrel, Suffolk and Buckingham, with the 
greatest number of their adherents, were dissolved. And 
although for bis breach of oath by sacrament, it pleased 
God to strike down York: yet his son the Earl of March, 
following the plain path which his father had trodden out, 
despoiled Henry the father, and Edward the son, both of 
tiieir lives and kingdom. And what was the end now of 
that politic lady the Queen, other than this, that she lived 
to behold the wretched ends of all her partakers: that tbt 
lived to look on, while her husband the King, and her only 
son the Prince, were hewn in sunder; while the Crown 
was set on his head that did it. She lived to see herself 
despoiled of her estate, and of her moveables: and lastly, 
her father, by rendering up to the Crown of France the 
Earldom of Provence and other places, for the payment ol 
fifty thousand crowns for her ransom, to become a staric 
beggar. And this was the end of that subtility, which Si- 
raeides calleth "fine" but "unrighteous:" for other fruit 
faaih it never yielded since the world was. 

And now it came to Edward the Fourth's ttini (though 
after many difficulties) to triumph. For all the plants of 
Lancaster were rooted up, one only Earl of Richmond ex- 
cepted: whom also he had once bought of the Duke of 
Brittany, but could not hold him. And yet was not this 
of Edward such a plantation, as could any way promise it- 
aelf Btobility, For this Edward th« King (to omit more 
than many of his other cruelties) beheld and allowed ttiQ 
slaughter which Gloucester, Dorset, Hastings, and others, 
made of Edward the Prince in his own presence; of which 
tiBgical actors, there was not one that escaped the judg- 
nent of God in the same kind. And he, which (besides 
• "Thsiuiilt done bi >c«n>iii| her fc w^ ." 



TO THB HISTORT OF THE WORLD 

theexKUtion of his brother Clarence, for nore other offence 
ihan he hini&etf bad formed in his own imagination) in- 
sinicted Gloucester to kill Henry the Sixth, his predeces- 
»r; taught him also by the same an to kill his own sons and 
successors, Edward and Richard. For those kings which 
hive sold the blood of others at a low r^te; have but made 
the market for iheir own enemies, to buy of theirs at the 
same price. 

To Edward the Fourth succeeded Richard the Third, the 
greatest master in mischief of all that fore-went him; who 
although, for the necessity of his tragedy, he had more 
parts to play, and more to perform in his own person, than 
all the rest ; yet he so well fitted every affection that played 
with bim, as if each of them had but acted his own interest. 
For he wrought so cunningly upon the aflfections of Hast- 
ings and Buckingham, enemies to the Queen and to all 
hcr kindred, as he easily allured them to condescend, that 
Rivers and Grey, the King's maternal uncle and half 
brother, should (for the first) be severed from him: sec- 
ondly, he wrought their consent to have them imprisoned: 
and lastly (for the avoiding of future inconvenience) to 
have their heads severed from their bodies. And having 
noiw brought those his chief instruments to exercise that 
common precept which the Devil haih written on every 
Post, namely, to depress those whom they had grieved, and 
destroy those whom they had depressed ; he urged that argu- 
'^•int 30 far and so forcibly, as nothing but the death of 
tt»,£. young King himself, and of his brother, could fashion 
*»^' conclusion. For he caused i[ to be hammered into 
^ i^iickingham's head, that, whensoever the King or his 
'* *~ mother should have able years to exercise their power, 
*^^«y would take a most severe revenge of that cureless 
^5^ *ong, offered to their uncle and brother. Rivers and 

But this was not his manner of reasoning with Hastings, 

^^^■hose fidelity to his master's sons was without suspect: and 

^j^^t the Devil, who never dissuades by impossibility, taught 

*^im to try him. And so he did. But when he found 

■^y Catesby, who sounded him, that he was not fordable; he 

"^LTSt resolved to kill him sitting in council: wherein having 



SIR WALTER RALEIGH 

failed with bis sword, he set the hangman apen him, wMt 
a weapon of more weight. And because nothing else couid 
move his appetite, he caused his head to be stricken off, Im- 
fore he ate his dinner. A greater judgment of God than 
this upon Hastings, I have never observed in any staiy. 
For the selfsame day that the Earl Rivers, Grey, and others, 
were (without trial of law, of offence given) by Hastings' 
advice executed al Pomfret: I say Hastings himself in the 
same day, and (as I lake it) in the same hour, in the same 
lawless manner had his head stricken off in the Tower of 
London, But Buckingham lived a while longer; and with 
an eloquent oration persuaded the Londoners to elect Rich* 
ard for their king. And having received the Earldom of 
Hereford for reward, besides the high hope of marrying his 
daughter to the King's only son; after many grievous vexa- 
tions of mind, and unfortunate attempts, being in the end 
betrayed and delivered up by his trustiest servant; he had 
his head severed from his body at Salisbury, without ifte 
trouble of any of his Peers. And what success had Richard 
himself after all these mischiefs and murders, policies, and 
counter-policies to Christian religion: and after such time as 
with a most merciless hand he had pressed out the breath of 
his nephews and natural lords ; other than the prosperity of 
so short a life, as it took end, ere himself could well look 
over and discern itp The great outcry of innocent blood, 
obtained at God's hands the effusion of his; who became a 
spectacle of shame and dishonor, both to his friends asd 
enemies. 

This cruel King, Henry the Seventh cut ofF; and 
therein (no doubt) the immediate instrument of God's jii»- 
tice. A politic Prince he was if ever there were any, who 
by the engine of Iris wisdom, beat down and overturned as 
many strong oppositions both before and after he wore the 
Crown, as ever King of England did: I say by his wisdom, 
because as he ever left the reins o£ his affections in the hands 
of his profit, so he always weighed his undertakings by his 
abilities, leaving nothing more to hazard than so much as 
cannot be denied it in all human actions. He had well 
observed the proceedings of Louis the Eleventh, whom he 
followed in all that was royal or royal-like, but he was far 




TO THE HISTOEY OF THE WOKLD 

K Just, and begun not thoir processes whom he hated or 
feared by the execution, as Louis did. 

He could never endure any mediation in rewarding his 
servants, and therein exceeding wise : for whatsoever him- 
self gave, he himself received back the thanks and the love, 
Icnowing it wcH that the affections of men (purchased by 
nothing so readily as by benefits) were trains that better 
became great kings, than great subjects. On the contrary, 
in whatsoever he grieved his subjects, he wisely put it off 
on those, that he found fit ministers for such actions. How- 
soever the taking off of Stanley's head, who set the Crown 
on his, and the death of the young Earl of Warwick, son 
to George, Duke of Clarence, shows, as the success also 
did, that he held somewhat of the errors of his ancestors; 
foi his possession in the first line ended in his grand- 
children, as that of Edward the Third and Henry the 
Fourth had done. 

Now for King Henry the Eighth; if all the pictures and 
patterns of a merciless prince were lost in the world, they 
might all again be painted to the life, out of the story of 
this king. For how many servants did he advance in haste 
(but for what virtue no_ man could suspect) and with the 
change of his fancy ruined again; no man knowing for what 
ofience? To how many others of more desert gave he abun- 
dant flowers from whence to gather honey, and in the end 
of harvest burnt them in the hive? How many wives did 
he cut off, and cast off, as his fancy and affection changed? 
How many princes of the blood (whereof some of them 
forage could hardly crawl towards the block) with a world 
of others of all degrees (of whom our common chronicles 
have kept the account) did he execute? Yea, in his very 
death-bed, and when he was at the point to have given his 
account to God for the abundance of blood already spiU, he 
itiprisoned the Duke of Norfolk the father; and executed 
fte Earl of Surrey the son; the one, whose deservings he 
luiew not how to value, having never omitted anything that 
concerned his own honor, and the King's service; the other 
never having committed anything worthy of his least dis- 
pfewure: the one exceeding valiant and advised; the other 
"> lew valiant than learned, and of excellent hope. But 



I 



tt SIR "WAI-TEII RALEIGH 

besides the sorrows which he heaped upon the fatherlea 
and widows at home: and besides the vain eaterprix 
abroad, wherein it is thought that he consumed more treas^ 
ure ihan all our victorious kings did in their several £ 
quests: what causeless and cruel wars did he make upoH 
his own nephew King James the First? What laws a 
wills did he devise to cut off, and cut down those branches 
which iprang from the same root that hiiiiscl£ did? 
in the end (notwithstanding these his so many irreligioui 
provisions) it pleased God to take away all his own, with- 
out increase; though, for themselves in tiieir several kindly 
all princes of eminent virtue. For these words of Samiui 
to Agag King of the Amalekites, have been verified uiM 
many others: " As thy sword hath made otlier women chiW* 
less, so shall thy mother be childless among other womeiL^ 
And that blood which the same King Henry affirmed, thatth 
cold air of Scotland had frozen up in the North, God hat 
diffused by the sunshine of his grace: from whence hii 
Majesty now living, and long to live, is descended, 
whom I may say it truly, "That if all the malice of th' 
world were infused into one eye; yet could it not discern ii 
his hfe, even to this day, any one of these foul spots, lc_ 
which the consciences of all the forenamed princes {iM 
effect) have been defiled; nor any drop of that innoce* 
blood on the sword of his justice, wiih which the most tl 
fore-went him have stained both tlieir bands and fames 
And for this Crown of England ; it may truly be avowed 
that he hath received it even from the hand of God, i 
hath stayed the time of putting it on, howsoever he wef' 
provoked to hasten it; that he never took revenge of att3 
man, that sought to put him beside it: that he refused ti»' 
assistance of Her enemies, that wore it long, with as gre» 
glory as ever princess did: that his Majesty entered not ^ 
a. breach, nor by blood ; but by the ordinary gate, which fW 
own right set open; and info which, by a general love a** 
obedience, he was received. And howsoever his Majesty 
preceding title to this Kingdom was preferred by ] 
princes (witness the Treaty at Cambray in the year ISS9 
yet he never pleased to dispute it, during the life of 
renowned lady his predecessor; no, notwithstanding the iA 



jury of not being declared heir, in all the time of her long 
reign, 

Neither ought we to forget, or neglect our thankfulness 
to God for the uniting of the northern parts of Britain to 
the south, to wit, of Scotland to England, which though they 
re severed but by small brooks and barks, yet by reason 
of the long continued war, and the cruelties exerciaed upon 
each other, in the affections of the nationa, they were in- 
finitely severed. This I aay is not the least of God's bless- 
ii^^ which his Majesty hath brought with him unto this 
land: no, put all our petty grievances together, and heap 
them up to their height, they will appear but as a mole- 
hill compared with the mountain of this concord. And if 
all the historians since then have acknowledged the uniting 
of the Red Rose, and the White, for the greatest happiness 
(Christian Religion excepted), that ever this kingdom re- 
ceived from God, certainly the peace between the two Hona 
of gold and gules, and the making them one, doth by many 
d^rees exceed the former; for by it, besides the sparing 
of our British blood, heretofore and during the difference, 
so often and abundantly shed, the state of England is more 
assured, the kingdom more enabled to recover her ancient 
honor and rights, and by it made more invincible, than by 
all our former alliances, practices, policies, and conquests. 
It ia true that hereof we do not yet find the effect. But had 
Iha Duke of Parma in the year 1588, joined the army which 
he commanded, with that of Spain, and landed it on the 
south coast; and had his Majesty at the same time declared 
hinuelt against us in the North: it is easy to divine what 
^id become of the liberty of England, certainly we would 
llisn without murmur have bought this union at far greater 
price than it hath since cost us. It is true, that there was 
Mser any common weal or kingdom in the world, wherein 
no man had cause to lament. Kings live in the world, and 
not above it. They are not infinite to examine every man's 
isuie, or to relieve every man's wants. And yet in the 
I'Her (though to his own prejudice), his Majesty hath had 
"wre comparison of other men's necessities, than of his own 
(offers. Of whom it may be said, as of Solomon,' " Dedit 

'"Cm! gava to SolDmon largeneM at hurl."— i Slugs Iv, 19. 



SIH WALTER RALEIGH 

Deus Solomoni latitudinem cordis": Which if other fl 
do not understand with Pineda, to be meant by Hberah "^y 
but by " latitude of knowledge " ; yet may it be better spolc: -^^ 
of His Majesty, than of any king that ever England ha^ *^ 
who as well in divine, as human understanding, hath e-^^" 
ceeded all that fore-went him. by many degrees. 

I could say much more of the King's majesty, wilho '•** 
flattery: did I not fear the imputation of presumption, a«-^»<l 
withal suspect, that it might befall these papers of miKT^e 
(though the loss were little) as it did the pictures of Qtie^^^" 
Elizabeth, made by unskilful and common painters, whic^^'* 
by her own commandment were knocked in pieces and ca .^s* 
into the 6re. For ill artists, in setting out the beauty of ih^^^ 
external ; and weak writers, in describing the virtues o£ tt^^* 
internal; do often leave to posterity, of well formed fac^^^ 
a deformed memory; and of the most perfect and princcl _J 
minds, a most defective representation. It may suffice, an -" ' 
there needs no other discourse; if the honest reader hiM^ 
compare the cruel and turbulent passages of our forme '^| 
kings, and of other their neighbor-princes (of whom fos^J 
that purpose I have inserted this brief discourse) with hi^9 
Majesty's temperate, revengeless and liberal disposition : E^ 
say, that if the honest reader weigh them justly, and witHW 
an even hand; and withal but bestow every deformed chilcH^ 
on his true parent ; he shall find, that there is no man tha,r — 
hath so just cause to complain, as the King himself hath .^ 
Now as we have told the success of the trumperies anc::* 
cruelties of our own kings, and other great personages: sCi:* 
we find, that God is everywhere the same God. And as if J 
pleased him to punish the usurpation, and unnatural cruelty^C 

of Henry the First, and of our third Edward, in their chil 

dren for many generations: so dealt He with the sons o^^ 

Louis Debonnaire, the son of Charles the Great, or Charle 

tnagne. For after such time as Debonnaire of France, hai^^ 
torn out the eyes of Bernard his nephew, the son of Pepin*" 
the eldest son of Charlemagne, and heir of the Empire, and^E 
then caused him to die in prison, as did our Henry to^ 
Robert his eldest brother : there followed nothing but mur- ■ — 
ders upon murders, poisoning, imprisonments, and civil war; ^ 
till the whole race of that famous Emperor was extinguished. ■ 



And though Dcbonnaire, after he had rid himself of his 
nephew by a violent death; and of his bastard brothers by 
& civil death (having inclosed them with sure guard, all the 
diys of their lives, within a monastery) held himself secure 
Irom all opposition: yet God raised up against him (which 
be suspected not) his own sons, to vex him, to invade him. 
Id take him prisoner, and to depose him ; his own sons, with 
whom (to satisfy their ambition) he had shared his estate, 
md given them crowns to wear, and kingdoms to govern, 
during his own life. Yea his eldest son, Lothair (for he 
bid four, three by his first wife, and one by his second; to 
wit, Lothair, Pepin, Louis, and Charles), made it the cause 
of his deposition, that he had used violence towards his 
brothers and kinsmen ; and that he had suffered his nephew 
(whom he might have delivered) to be slain. " Eo quod," 
with the text,' " fratribus, et propinquis violentiam intulerit, 
et nepotem suum, quem ipse liberare poterat, interfici per- 
nueerit " : " Because he used violence to his brothers and 
JoDsmen, and suffered his nephew to be slain whom he might 
tan delivered." 

Yet did he that which few kings do; namely, repent him 
of his cruelty. For, among many other things which he per- 
formed in the General Assembly of the States, it follows: 
Post haec autem palam se errasse confessus, et imitatus 
Imperatoris Theodosii exemplum, poenitentiam spontaneam 
suscepit, tam de his, quam quae in Bernardum proprium 
nepotem gesserat": "After this he did openly confess him- 
self to have erred, and following the example of the Era- 
P<ror Theodosias, he underwent voluntary penance, as well 
*or his other offences, as for that which he had done against 
Bernard his own nephew." 

This he did; and it was praise -worthy. But the blood that 
'S unjustly spilt, is not again gathered up from the ground 
Vy repentance. These medicines, ministered to the dead, 
**ave but dead rewards. 

This king, as I have said, had four sons. To Lothair his 
eldest he gave the Kingdom of Italy; as Charlemagne, his 
father, had done to Pepin, the father of Bernard, who was 
to succeed him in the Empire. To Pepin the second son he 

' St^ Piuqnier£, ReeherdieB, lib. v. mp. i> 




^^_ ^ and I 



■ SIR WALTER RAUEIGH 

fAre the Kingdom of Aquitatnc: to Lonh, Ac 
of Bavaria : and to Charles, wbctn he had hj a 
called Judith, the reniaiad«r of the Kingdom of Fi 
dm lecoDd wife, being a inotfi«r-tn-lair* to the 
loaded Debonoairc to cast bis ton Pepin out of 
ttwrcbr to greaieo Charles, which, after the 
Aon Pepia, be prosecuted to eJTect, against his 
bearing Ibe same name. In the meanwhile, being 
by bis son Louis of Bavaria, he dies for grief. 

Dcbonnaire dead. Louis of Bavaria, and Charles after- 
wards caUed the Bald, and their nephew Pepin, of 
taine. join in league against the Emperor LotbaJr 
eWest brother. They fight near to Auxerre the most ' 
battle that ever was stroken in France : in which, the 
vetlous loss of nobility, and men of war, gave cosra^ to 
Saracens to invade Italy ; to the Huns to fall upon Almainej 
and the Danes to enter upon Normandy. Charles the Bald 
by treason scizelh upon his nephew Pepin, kills htm in * 
cloister : Carloman rebels against his father Charles 
Bald, the father bums out the eyes of his son Carlotnan; 
Bavaria invades the Emperor Lolhair his brother, Lothaif 
qnits the Empire, he is assailed and wounded to the heart 
by his own conscience, for his rebellion against his father, 
and for his other cruelties, and dies in a monastery. Charles 
the Bald, the uncle, oppresseth his nephews the sons of I 
thair, he usurpeth the Empire to the prejudice of Louis 
Bavaria his elder brother; Bavaria's armies and his s 
Carloman are beaten, he dies of grief, and the usui 
Charles is poisoned bv Zedechias a Jew, his physician, 
■on Louts le Begue dies of the same drink. Bcgue 
Charles the Simple and two bastards, Louis and Carloman) 
they rebel against their brother, but the eldest breaks his 
neck,_the younger is slain by a wild boar; the son " "" 
had ttie same ill destiny, and brake his neck by a fall out ot 
a window in sporting with his companions. Charles the 
Gross becomes lord of all that the sons of Debonnaire held 
in Germany: wherewith not contented, he invades Charles 
the Simple: but being forsaken of his nobility, of his wif<_ 
^ and of his understanding, he dies a distracted beggar. Charles 

' Step'inclher. 



TO THE HISTOET OP THE WORLD 

Simple is held in wardship by Eiidcs, Mayor of the 
Palate, then by Robert the brother of Eudes: and lastly, 
being taken by the Earl of Vermandois, he is forced to die 
in tlie prison of Peron. Louis the son of Charles the 
Simple breaks his neck in chasing a wolf, and of the two 
sons of this Louis, the one dies of poison, the other dies 
in the prison of Orleans; after whom Hugh Capet, of an- 
other race, and a stranger to the French, makes himself 
kine-, 

These miserable ends had the issues of Debonnairc, who 
aft«t- he had once apparelled injustice with authority, his 
toas and successors took up the fashion, and wore that gar- 
ment so long without other provision, as when the same was 
torn, from their shoulders, every man despised them as 
miserable and naked beggars. The wretched success they 
•'^ (saith a learned Frenchman) shows, "que en ceste 
oort il y avail plus du fait des bommes que de Dieu, on de 
1» justice"; "that in the death of that Prince, to wit, of 
Bernard the son of Pepin, the true heir of Charlemagne, 
•nen had more meddling than either God or justice had." 

But to come nearer home; it is certain that Francis the 
f^i'st, one of the worthiest kings (except for that fact) that 
•'^r Frenchmen had, d!d never enjoy himself, after he 
"'J commended the destruction of the Protestajits of 
Mirandol and Cabrieres, to the Parliament of Provence, 
"hich poor people were thereupon burnt and murdered ; 
"I**!, women, and children. It is true that the said King 
Francis repented himself of the fact, and gave charge to 
Henry his son, to do justice upon the murderers, threatening 
^^ son with God's judgments, if he neglected it But this 
""Seasonable care of his, God was not pleased to accept for 
P^J^^nent For after Henry himself was slain in Sport by 
Montgomery, we all may remember what became of his 
'^'^T sons, Francis, Charles, Henry, and Hercules. Of 
*"icb although three of them became kings, and were mar- 
^*^ to beautiful and virtuous ladies: yet were they, one 
Mter another, cast out of the world, without stock or seed, 
'^nd notwithstanding their subtiiity, and breach of faith; 
"th all their massacres upon those of the religion,' and 



k. 




M Snt WALTER RAI-EIGH 

great effnnon of blood, the crown was set on his 1) 
wImmb tbey all labored to dissolve; the Protestants red 
nore ID iiimib«r Ihaa erer ihejr were, and hold to ttiia 
more strong cities than ever tbey had. 

Let OS DOW see if God be not the same God in Spalc 
to Erglaud and FraiKX. Towards wliom we will lool 
further bade than to Don Pedro of Castile: in respe^ 
which Prince, all the tyraots of Sicil, our Richard 
Third, and the great Ivan Vasilowich of Moscow, were 
petty ones: this Castilian, of aD Christian and heal 
kings, having been the most merciJess. For, besides 6 
of his own blood and nobility, which be caosed to be i 
in his own court and chamber, as Sancho Riiis, the ^ 
master of Calatrava, Ruis Gonsales, Alphonso Tello, 
Don John of Arragon, whom he cut in pieces and cast 
the streets, denying him Christian burial: 1 say, bei 
these, and the slaughter of Gomes Mauriques, Diego Pi 
Alphonso Gomes, and the great commander of Castile; 
made away the two infants of Arragon his cousin genu 
his brother Don Frederick, Don John de la Cerde, 
buquergues, Nugnes de Guzman, Come!, Cabrera, Tea 
Mendes de Toledo, Guttiere his great treasurer and all 
kindred; and a world of others. Neither did he spare 
two youngest brothers, innocent princes: whom aftd 
had kept in close prison from their cradles, till oiwl 
them had lived sixteen years, and the other fourteen 
murdered them there. Nay, he spared not his mother, 
bis wife the Lady Blanche of Bourbon. Lastly, at 
caused the Archbishop of Toledo, and the Dean to be k 
of purpose to enjoy their treasures; so did he put to d 
Mahomet Aben Alhamar, King of Barbary, with tU 
seven of his nobility, tliat came unto him for succor, ' 
a great sum of money, to levy (by his favor) some i 
panics of soldiers to return withal. Yea, he would o 
assist the hangman with his own hand, in the executioi 
the old king; in so much as Pope Urban dedareth hia 
enemy both to God and man. But what was his end? ] 
ing been formerly beaten out of his kingdom, and 
established by the valor of the English nation, led by 
iamous Duke of Lancaster: he was subbed to death b 



TO THE HISTORY OP THE WORLD 

younger brother t!ie Earl of Astramara, who dispossessed 
all bis children of their inheritance; which, but for the 
father's injustice and cruelty, had never been in danger of 
any such thing. 

If we can parallel any man with this king, it must be 
Duke John of Burgogne, who, afler his traitorous murder 
of the Duke of Orleans, caused the Constable of Armagnaq 
the Chancellor of France, the Bishops of Constance, Bayeux, 
Eureux, Senlis, Salutes, and other religious and reverend 
Churchmen, the Earl of Gran Pre, Hector of Charlres, and 
(in effect) all the officers of justice, of the Chamber of 
Accounts, Treasury, and Request, (with sixteen hundred 
Cithers to accompany them) to be suddenly and violently 
ll^ Hereby, while he hoped to govern, and to have mas- 
tered France, he was soon after struck wilh an axe in the 
face, in the presence of the Dauphin; and, without any 
leisure to repent his misdeeds, presently" slain. These were 
\ht lovers of other men's miseries: and misery found them 

nit. 

Now for the kings of Spain, which lived both with Henry 
the Seventh, Henry the Eiglith, Queen Mary, and Queen 
Bizabeth; Ferdinand of Arragon was the first; and the 
Srst that laid the foundation of the present Austrian great- 
MES. For this King did not content himself to hold Arragon 
lythe usurpation of his ancestor; and to fasten thereunto 
the Kingdom of Castile and Leon, which Isabel his wife 
licld by strong hand, and his assistance, from her own niece 
the daughter of the last Henry: but most cruelly and craftily, 
without al! color or pretence of right, he also cast his ovni 
niece out of the Kingdom of Navarre, and, contrary to 
faith, and the promise that he made to restore it, fortified 
tte best places, and so wasted the rest, as tliere was no 
UKans left for any army to invade it. This King, I say, 
tlat betrayed also Ferdinand and Frederick, Kings of 
Niples, princes of his own blood, and by double alliance 
W unto him; sold them to the French: and with the same 
■nny, sent for their succor under Gonsalvo, cast them out; 
>nd shared their kingdom with the Freach, whom after- 
1s tw most shamefully betrayed. 

"IiuWiitlT. 



1 greata 



Btn WALTER XAUSOra 

'^Mh W^ *'"' I^'*'*^ Kiag, who joM Heaven and his 
'mm* ^ make his son. the Prioce of Spain, the gre 
•^mwi^ "' *'" world; nw him die in the flower of 
^i^tf*: Ali^ '''* ""'^^ E^^^t ^^ cfai3d, with ber untimely bi 
^ MIM Aid together buried. His eldest daughter man 
KiiHi Dun Alphonso, Prioce of Portagml, beheld her 
ItMlMnJ brcsk bis neck is ber presence; and bein^ 
gluhl by her second, died with iL A jost judgment of 
u^ii (he race of John, father to Alphooso, now w 
WAtitipiishcd ; who had not oolj left many disconsol 
uKitheri in Portugal, by the sLaugfaler of Uieir childi 
bkll had formerly slain with his own hand, the son 
(uily comfort of his aunt the Lady Beatrix, Duchess 

7'he second daughter of Ferdinand, married to the Arc 
Duka Philip, turned fool, and died mad and deprived." i~ 
third daughter, bestowed on King Henry the Eighth, 
■HW cast off by the King: the mother of many troubles 
F.ngland; and the mother of a daughter, that in her % 
happy zeal shed a world of innocent blood; lost Calais 
the French; and died heartbroken without increase, 
conclude, all those kingdoms of Ferdinand have maafl 
of a new name; and by a strange family are govera 
and possessed. 

Charles the Fifth, son to the Arch-Duke Philip, in v 
vain enterprises upon the French, upon the Almaina, 
other princes and states, so many multitudes of Chrtstjj 
•oldicrs, and renowned captains were consumed; who gatj 
the while a most perilous entrance to the Turks, and su£Fera 
Rhodes, the Key of Christendom, to be taken; was tn co^ 
clu*ion chased out of France, and in a sort out of Germi 
snd left to the French, Menu, Toule, and Verdun, pi: 
belonging to the Empire, stole away from Inspurg; 
scaled the Alps by torchlight, pursued by Duke Mauri 
having hoped to swallow up all those dominions wherein 
concocted nothing save his own disgraces. And ha- 
after the slaughter of bo many millions of men, no one 
of ground in either: he crept into a cloisler, and made 
self a pensioner of an hundred tliousand ducats by 



TO THE HISTORY OP THE "WORUD 

yeaT, to his son Philip, from whom he very sJowly received 

hiM mean and ordinary maintenance. 

fjis son again King Philip the Second, not satisfied to 
hoIc3 Holland and Zeeland, (wrested by hie ancestors from 
Jacqueline their lawful Princess) and to possess in peace 
many other provinces of the Netherlands: persuaded by 
tha,t mischievous Cardinal of Granvile, and other Romish 
tyrants; not only forgot the most remarkable services done 
to his father the Emperor by the nobilities of those countries, 
not only forgot the present made him upon his entry, of 
forty millions of florins, called the " Novaile aide"; nor 
only forgot that he had twice most solemnly sworn to the 
General States, to maintain and preserve their ancient rights, 
privileges, and customs, which they had enjoyed under their 
thirty and five carls before him. Conditional Princes of those 
provinces: but beginning first to constrain them, and en- 
thrall them by the Spanish Inquisition, and then to im- 
poverish them by many new devised and intolerable im- 
positions ; he lastly, by strong hand and main force, at- 
tempted to make himself not only an absolute monarch over 
Ihera, like unto the kings and sovereigns of England and 
France; but Turk-like to tread under his feet all their 
xatural and fundamental laws, privileges, and ancient rights. 
To effect which, after he had easily obtained from the 
cope a. dispensation of his former oaths (which dispensation 
*»i the tnie cause of the war and bloodshed since then;) 
and after he had tried what he could perform, by dividing 
of their own nobility, under the government of his base 
sister Margaret of Austria, and the Cardinal Granvile; 
fcft employed that most merciless Spaniard Don Ferdinand 
■Alvarez of Toledo, Duke of Alva, followed with a powerful 
*rniy of strange nations: by whom he first slaughtered that 
^■enowned captain, the Earl of Egmont, Prince of Gavare: 
*nd Philip Montmorency, Earl of Horn: made away Mon- 
tigue, and the Marquis of Bergues, a.nd cut off in those six 
years (that Alva governed) of gentlemen and others, eigh- 
teen thousand and six hundred, by the hands of the hang- 
roan, besides all his other barbarous murders and massacres. 
By whose ministry when he could not yet bring his affairs 
to their wished ends, having it in his hope to work that by 



SIR WALTER RALEIGH 

lubtiHty, which he had failed to perform by force; he sent 
for governor his bastard brother Don John of Austria, k' 
prince of great hope, and very gracious to those people. But 
be, using the same papal advantage that his predecessors had 
done, made no scruple to take oath upon the Hoiy Evangel- 
ists, to observe the treaty made with the General States; 
and to discharge the Low Countries of all Spaniards, and 
other strangers therein garrisoned: towards whose pay and 
passport, the Netherlands strained themselves to make pay- 
ment of six hundred thousand pounds. Which monies re- 
ceived, he suddenly surprised the citadels of Antwerp an^ 
Nemours: not doubling (being unsuspected by the states)^ 
to have possessed himself of all the mastering places of 
those provinces. For whatsoever he overtly pretended, he 
held in secret a contrary counsel with the Secretary Esco- 
vedo, Rhodus, Barlemont, and others, ministers of the Span- 
ish tyranny, formerly practised, and now again intended. 
But let us now see the effect and end of this perjury and of 
all other the Duke's cruelties. First, for himself, after ho 
had murdered so many of the nobility ; executed (as afore- 
said) eighteen thousand and six hundred in six years, and' 
most cruelly slain man, woman, and child, in Mechlin, Zut- 
phen, Naerden, and other places: notwithstanding hit 
Spanish vaunt, that he would suffocate the Hollanders iB 
their own butter-barrels, and milk-tubs ; he departed thA 
country no otherwise accompanied, than with the curse and 
detestation of the whole nation ; leaving his master's affairs 
in a tenfold worse estate, than he found them at his first 
arrival. For Don John, whose haughty conceit of himself 
overcame the greatest difficulties ; though his judgment were 
over-weak to manage the least: what wonders did his fear- 
ful breach of faith bring forth, other than the King hii 
brother's jealousy and distrust, with the untimely death 
that seized him, even in the flower of his youth? Aut 
for Escovedo his sharp-witted secretary, who in his owO' 
imagination had conquered for his master both Englan4 
and the Netherlands ; being sent into Spain upon some new 
project, he was at the first arrival, and before any accest 
to the King, by certain ruffians appointed by Anthony Peres 
^though by better warrant than his) rudely murdered ia 




TO THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD 



is own lodging. Lastly, if we consider the King of Spain's 
' , his counsel and success in this business, there is 
nothing left to the memory of man more remarkable. For 
ht hath paid above an hundred millions, and the lives of 
above four hundred thousand Christians, for the loss of all 
those countries ; which, for beauty, gave place to none ; 
and for revenue, did equal his West Indies: for the loss 
ot a nation which most willingly obeyed him ; and who at 
this day, after forty years war, arc in despite of all his 
forces become a free estate, and far more rich and power- 
ful than they were, when he first began to impoverisb und 
oppress them. 

Oh, by what plots, by what forswearings, betrayings, 
oppressions, imprisonments, tortures, poisonings, and under 
what reasons of state, and politic subtlety, have these fore- 
named kings, both strangers, and of our own nation, pulled 
ihe vengeance of God upon themselves, upon theirs, and 
upon their prudent ministers ! and in the end have brought 
ftose things to pass for their enemies, and seen an effect 
so directly contrary to all their own counsels and cruelties; 
as the one could never have hoped for themselves ; and the 
other never have succeeded; if no such opposition had ever 
been made. God hath said it and performed it ever: 
"Perdam sapientiatn sapientum"; "I will destroy the wi»- 
dom of the wise." 

But what of all this ? and to what end do we lay before the 
eyes of the living, the fall and fortunes of the dead : seeing 
the world is the same that it hath been; and the children of 
the present time, will still obey their parents? It is in the 
present time that all the wits of the world are exercised. 
To hold the times we have, we hold all things lawful: and 
dtber we hope to hold them forever; or at least we hope 
&a.t there is nothing after them to be hoped for. For as we 
arc content to forget our own experience, and to counter- 
felt the ignorance of our own knowledge, in all things that 
concern ourselves; or persuade ourselves, that God hafli 
given us letters patents to pursue all our irreligious affecr 
tions, with a "non obstante"" so we neither look behind us 
what hath been, nor before us what shall be. It is true, 

u ■■ Jjoiiuiig hindniiig," 




I 
I 



M nit WALTER RAIiUOH 

that tfie qnsntlty wliich we have, is of the body ; we an t 
jt joined to the earth; wc are compounded of earth; U 
yre inhabit it. The Heavens are high, far o£F, and unseard 
able: we have sense and feeling of corporal things; and I 
eternal grace, but by revelation. No marvel then that 9 
thoughts are aho earthly : and it is less to be wondered ) 
that the words of worthless men can not cleanse thSI 
seeing their doctrine and instruction, whose understandil 
the Holy Ghost vouchsafed to inhabit, have not perfonOI 
it. For as the Prophet Isaiah cried out long ago, "Lai 
who hath believed our reports?" And out of doubt, 
Isaiah complained then for himself and others: so are t 
less believed, every day after other. For although religk 
and the truth thereof be in every man's mouth, yea, in 
discourse of every woman, who for the greatest number 
but idols of vanity: what is It other than an universal i 
simulation ? We profess that we know God: but by v/a 
we deny him. For beatitude doth not consist in the bna 
edge of divine things, but in a divine life: for the De 
know them belter than men. " Beatitude non est dlvinoi 
cognitio, sed vita divina." And certainly there is nottii 
more to be admired, and more to be lamented, than 1 
private contention, the passionate dispute, the persa 
hatred, and the perpetual war, massacres, and murders I 
religion among Christians: the discourse whereof hath 
occupied the world, as it hath well near driven the pratl 
thereof out of the world. Who would not soon resolve, t' 
took knowledge but of the religious disputations among n 
and not of their lives which dispute, that there were 
Other thing in their desires, than the purchase of Hcavt 
and that the world itself were but used as it ought, and 
an tnn or place, wherein to repose ourselves in passing 
towards our celestial habitation ? when on the contrary, ' 
aides the discourse and outward profession, the soul b 
nothing but hypocrisy. We are all (in effect) becd 
comedians in religion: and while wo act in gesture 
Toice, divine virtues, in all the course of our lives we 
nounce our persons, and the parts we play. For Chai 
Justice, and Truth have but their being in ttmu, like 
philosopher's Materia prima. 



to THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD 



95 



Neither is it that wisdom, which Solomon defineth to be 
the "Schoolmistress of tlie knowledge of God," that hath 
valuition in the world: it is enough tliat we give it our 
goDil word : but the same wliich is altogetlier exercised in 
the service of the world as the gathering of riches chic%, 
I17 which we purchase and obtain honor, with the many 
respects which attend it. These indeed be the marks, which 
(when we have bent our consciences to the highest) we 
ill shoot at. For the obtaining whereof it is true, that the 
care is our own ; the care our own in this life, the peril our 
Dwn in the future: and yet when we have gathered the 
greatest abundance, we ourselves enjoy no more thereof, 
ihm so much aa belongs to one man. For tiie rest, he that 
had the greatest wisdom and the greatest ability that ever 
man had. hath told us that this is the use : " When goods in- 
crease (saith Solomon) they also increase that eat them; 
Md what good cometh to the owners, but the beholding there- 
of with their eyes ? As for those that devour the rest, and 
Mow us in fair weather: they again forsake us in the first 
tempest of misfortune, and steer away before the sea and 
wind; leaving us to the malice of our destinies. Of these, 
smong a thousand examples. I will fake but one out of Master 
Danner. and use his own words: "Whilest the Emperor 
Charles the Fifth, after the resignation of his estates, stayed 
3t Flushing for wind, to carry him his last journey into 
Spain; he conferred on a time with Seldius, his brother 
Ferdinand's Ambassador, till the deep of tlie night And 
when Seldius should depart, the Emperor calling for some 
of his servants, and nobody answering him (for those that 
attended upon him, were some gone to their lodgings, and 
^" the rest asleep), the Emperor took up the candle himself, 
*"d went before Seldius to light him down the stairs; and 
^ did, notwithstanding all the resistance that Seldius could 
"^^ne. And when he was come to the stair's foot, he said 
*«"! unlo him: "Seldius. remember this of Charles the Em- 
P^^'or, when he shall be dead and gone, that him. whom thou 
*st^ known in thy time environed with so many mighty 
^P^'ies and guards of soldiers, thou hast also seen alone, 
^™ndoned, and forsaken, yea even of his own domestical 
*^vaDts, &C. I acknowledge this change of Fortune to pro- 



Sm WALTBB RALXiaa 

ceed from tfae mighty band of God, which I will b; no 
means go about to withstand." 

But you will 5ay, that there arc some things else, and of 
greater regard than the former. The first is the reverend 
respect that is held of great men, and the honor done unto 
them by all sorts of people. And tl is true indeed; provided, 
that an inward love for their justice and piety accompany 
the outward worship given to their places and power ; 
out which what is the applause of the muJtitode. but a 
outcry of an herd of animals, who without the knowledge of 
any true cause, please themselves with the noise they make? 
For seeing it is a thing exceeding rare, to distinguish 
Virtue and Fortune: the most impious (if prosperous) hav« 
ever been applauded; the most virtuous (if unprosperous) 
have ever been despised. For as Fortune's man rides th« 
horse, so Fortune herself rides the man; who when he •* 
descended and on foot, the man taken from his beast, i 
Fortune from the man, a base groom beats the one, and ■ 
bitter contempt spurns at the other, with equal liberty. 

The second is the greatening of our posterity, and the 
contemplation of their glory whom we leave behind o*"' 
Certainly, of those which conceive that their souls departed 
take any comfort therein, it may be truly said of 1' 
which Laclantius spake of certain heathen philosophers* 
" quod sapientes sunt in re stulta.'"* For when our spirits 
immortal shall be once separate from our mortal bodieSi 
and disposed by God ; there remaineth in them no other jo^ 
of their posterity which succeed, than there doth of prid* 
in that stone, which sleepeth in the wall of the king*i 
palace; nor any other sorrow for their poverty, than thcf 
doth of shame in that, which bearelh up a beggar's cO* 
tage. " Nesciunt mortui, etiam sancti. quid agunt vi^-i, etial 
eorum filli, quia animae mortuorum rebus viventium bO 
intersunt": "The dead, though holy, know nothing of t*** 
living, no, not of their own children: for the souls of thos* 
departed, are not conversant with their affairs that **^^ 
main.'"* And if we doubt of St Augustine, we can not *=* * 
Job; who tells us, "That we know not if our sons shall t»^ 

" "That they are wise in B fooHih nMtler."— l*c*«itio«, Dt /alia rt^f^ 



■TO THE HISTORY OP THE WORJLD 



RWrahle: neither shall we understand concerning them, 
Whcr they shall be of low degree." Which Ecdesiastes 
' coafirmeth : " Man walkelh in a shadow, and disquietcth 
Bclf in vain: he heapeth up riches, and can not tell who 
-"-'J gather them. The living (saith he) know that they 
shaU die, but the dead know nothing at all : for who can 
sbovr unto man what shaU be after him under the sun?" 
■He Iherefore accoimleth it among the rest of worldly vani- 
ties, to labor and travail in the world ; not knowing after 
death whether a fool or a wise man should enjoy the fruits 
thereof: "which made me (saith he) endeavor even to ab- 
hor rriine ovm labor." And what can other men hope, whose 
bless^<^ or sorrowful estates after death God hath reserved? 
to^ s knowledge lying hut in his hope, seeing the Prophet 
Isaiali confesseth of the elect, " That Abraham is ignorant of 
*>*> *Hd Israel knows us not." But hereof we are assured, 
that (;^,g ]pj,g 3j,j j]gj.[j nigfjt of death (of whose following 
^y ^"^e shall never behold the dawn till his return that hath 
tnurr»j,i,ed over it), shall cover us over till the world be no 
"J"'^- After which, and when we shall again receive organs 
glortf^gjj gjj^j incorruptible, the seats of angelical affections, 
"^ ?*-* great admiration shall the souls of the blessed be ex- 
ereis^d^ as they can not admit the mixture of any second 
^"'less joy; nor any return of foregone and mortal affeclion 
*?*^*-ds friends, kindred, or children. Of whom whether we 
T^^^ retain any particular knowledge, or in any sort dis- 
"^^"'-lish them, no man can assure us: and the wisest tn«n 
~?''^t But on the contrary, if a divine life retain any 
*" t*i«jse faculties which the soul exercised in a mortal body, 
*^ ^ball not at that time so divide the joys of Heaven, as 
5^^^-st any part thereof on the memory of their felicities 
,™*^*i remain in the world. No, be their estates greater 
"Wt* gver the world gave, we shall (by the difference knovro 
I nntc* us) even detest their consideration. And whatsoever 
I ^"^ ^^rt shall remain of all forepast, the same will consist in 
I . _^iharity which we exercised living; and in that piety, 
I of '^^'^i ^"'^ fi™i faith, for which It pleased the infinite mercy 
L lL*^^°'^ 'o accept of us, and receive us. Shall we there- 
^^S[^ value honor and riches at nothing? and neglect them, 
^^BV^xmecessary and vain? Certainly no. For that infinite 

^^^B (4) HU— Vol. 



N 



m snt waltbh baleigh 

wisdom of God, which hath distinguished his angcli \if 
degrees; which hath given greater and less light and beauty 
to heavenly bodies; which haih made differences between 
beasts and birds ; created the eagle and the fly, the cedar and 
the shrub ; and among stones, given the fairest tincture to 
the ruby, and the quickest light to the diamond; hath also 
nrdajned kings, dukes, or leaders of the people, magistrates, 
judges, and other degrees among men. And as honor is 
left to posterity, for a mark and ensign of the virtue Ziut 
understanding of their ancestors: so (seeing Siracides pre* 
ferreth death before beggary: and that titles, without pro-- 
portionable estates, fall under the miserable succor of other 
men's pity) I account it foolishness to condemn such a care; 
provided, that worldly goods be well gotten, and that w* 
reise not our own buildings out of other men's ruins. For, 
aa Plato doth first prefer the perfection of bodily healthl 
secondly, the form and beauty ; and thirdly, " Divitias nuUa 
fraude quaesitas":" so Jeremiah cries, "Woe unto thetn 
that erect their houses by unrighteousness, and their chani' 
bers without equity": and Isaiah the same, "Woe to thos«: 
that spoil and were not spoiled." And it was out of th» 
true wisdom of Solomon, that he commandeth us, "not to 
drink the wine of violence ; not to lie in wait for blood, and 
not to swallow them up alive, whose riches we covet: for 
(nch are the ways (saith he) of everyone that is greedy* 
of gain." 

And if we could afford ourselves but so much leisure as M 
consider, that he which hath most in the world, hath, 
respect of the world, nothing in it: and that he which hath, 
the longest time lent him to live in it, hath yet no proportioB- 
at all therein, setting it either by that which is past, whoi' 
we were not, or by that time which is to come, in which 
shall abide forever: I say, if both, to wit, our proportioftl 
in the world, and our time in the world, differ not mudl 
from that which is nothing; it is not out of any excellency 
of understanding, that we so much prize the one, which halh 
(in effect) no being: and so much neglect the other, which 
hath no ending: coveting those mortal things of the worl^ 
as if our souls were therein immortal ; and neglecting those 
** " Wealth iGquired without fraud." 



Jitiags which are immortal, as if ourselves after the world 
were but mortal. 

But let evei7 man value his own wisdom, as he pleaseth. 

Let the rich man think all fools, that cannot equal his 

atiujuiance : the revenger esteem all negligent, that have not 

trocJden down their opposites; the politician, all gross that 

ca.r»rot merchandise their faith : yet when we once come in 

sight of the port of death, to which all winds drive us, and 

when by letting fall that fatal anclior, which can never be 

y«ighed again, the navigation of this life takes end; then 

't is, I say, that our own cogitations (those sad and severe 

t^ogitations. formerly beaten from us by our health and 

'el icily) return again, and pay us to the uttermost for all 

*He pleasing passages of our lives past. It is then that we 

Cy out to God for mercy; then when our selves can no 

longer exercise cruelty to others; and it is on!y then, that 

]^e are strucken through the soul with this terrible sentence, 

That God will not be mocked." For if according to SL Peter, 

The righteous scarcely be saved: and diat God spared not 

*^4s angels"; where shall those appear, who, having served 

'Heir appetites alt their lives, presume to think, that the 

®^"vere commandments of the all-powerful Cod were given 

^tit in sport; and that the short breath, which we draw when 

^^ath presseth us, if we can hot fashion it to the sound of 

**»ercy (without any kind of satisfaction or amends) is 

^MiBcient? "O quam multi," saith a reverend father, "cum 

**ac spe ad aeternos labores et bella descenduut ! "" I con- 

^«ss that it is a great comfort to our friends, to have it said, 

*tiat we ended well; for we all desire (as Balaam did) 

* to die the death of the righteous." But what shall we 

^^^all a disesteeming, an opposing, or (indeed) a mocking of 

^3o<i: if those men do not oppose Him, disesteem Him, and 

•:^*iock Hira, that think it enough for God, to ask Him for- 

^gpveness at leisure, with the remainder and last drawing of a 

*r«ialicious breath? For what do they otherwise, that die this 

"i^ind of well-dying, but say unto God as followeth? "We 

teseech Thee, O God, that all the falsehoods, forswearings, 

^nd treacheries of our lives past, may be pleasing unto 

*~Ihee; that Thou wilt for our sakes (that have had no 

»"0 how many go down with lliis hope to endleaa laborj ind wars." 




fflK WALTER RALEIGH 



J 



leisure to do anything for Thine) change Thy nature 
(though impossible, and forget to be a just God; that Thou 
wilt love injuries and oppressions, call ambition wisdom, ax>d 
charity foolishness. For I shall prejudice ray son (whic:!* 
I am resolved not to do) if 1 make restitution; and confess 
myself to have been unjust (which I am too proud to do 
if I deliver the oppressed." Certainly, these wise worldlia, 
have either found out a new God, or made one ; and in s 
likelihood such a leaden one, as Louis the Eleventh wore 
his cap; which when he had caused any that he feared, * 
hated, to be killed, he would take it from his head and Hsi 
it: beseeching it to pardon him this one evil act more, aa<I 
it should be the last; which (as at other times) he did, wheO 
by the practice of a cardinal and a falsified sacrament, he 
caused the Earl of Armagnac to be stabbed to death: mock- 
eries indeed fit to be used towards a leaden, but not towards 
the ever-living God. But of this composition are all devout 
lovers of the world, that they fear all that is dureless" 
ridiculous: they fear the plots and practises of their op- 
posiles," and their very whisperings: they fear the opinioos 
of men, which beat but upon shadows: they flatter and for- 
sake the prosperous and unprosperous, be they friends oi 
kings: yea they dive under water, like ducks, at every 
pebblestone, that is but thrown toward them by a powerful 
hand : and on the contrary, they show an obstinate and giant- 
like valor, against the terrible judgments of the all-powerful 
God: yea they show themselves gods against God, and slaves 
towards men ; towards men whose bodies and consciences are 
alike rotten. 

Now for the rest: If we truly examine the difference o£ 
both conditions; to wit, of the rich and mighty, whom we 
call fortunate; and of the poor and oppressed, whom we 
account wretched: we shall find the happiness of the one, 
and the miserable estate of the other, so tied by God to 
the very instant, and both so subject to interchange (wit- 
ness the sudden downfall of the greatest princes, and the 
speedy uprising of the meanest persons) as the one hath 
nothing bo certain, whereof to boast; nor the other so un- 
certain, whereof to bewail itself. For there is no OiBfl 




TO THE 'HISTORT OF THE WORLD 



101 



b assured of his hoiioc, 'of, -"Jiis, riches, health, or life; but 
bit he may be deprived of '-' either,'; or all, the very next 
Bur or day to come, " Quid vcsptr.-'yebst, incerttun est," 
rWtat the evening will bring witK 'if,, it is.' uncertain." 
pAnd yet ye cannot tell (saith St. James) v^haf ,siia]l be 
norrow. Today he is set up, and tomorrow he sbail-Mot 
e found; for he is turned into dust, and his purpose ^cr-; . 
And although the air which corapasseth adversity ■ 
B very obscure ; yet tlierein we better discern God, than 
bthatshining light which environeth worldly glory; through 
"rtiicli, for the clearness thereof, there is no vanity which 
tscapeth our sight And let adversity seem what it will; 
to happy men ridiculous, who make themselves merry at 
t other men's misfortunes ; and to those under the cross, griev- 

}«us: yet this is true, that for all that is past, to the very 
instant, the portions remaining are equal to either. For 
be it that we have lived many years, "and (according to 
Solomon) in them all we have rejoiced;" or be it that we 
J have measured the same length of days and therein have 
T erermore sorrowed: yet looking back from our present 
\ Wng, we find both the one and the other, to wit, the joy 
^1 and tiie woe, sailed out of sight; and death, which doth 
J pursue us and hold us in chase, from our infancy, hath 
'J p"'"ed it. " Quicquid aetatis retro est, mors tenet :" 
3 Whatsoever of our age is past, death holds it." So as 
|1 whosoever he be, to whom Fortune hath been a servant, 
J find (he Time a friend; let him hut take the account of his 
7 fflcmory (for we have no other keeper of our pleasures past), 
( *^d truly examine what it hath reserved either beauty and 
J t"""'' '"'^ foregone delights; what it hath saved, that it might 
J "^K of Jiis dearest affections, or of whatever else the amor- 
7 Ws springtime gave his thoughts of conlentmenl, then un- 
! "'"able; and he shall find that all the art which his elder 
■■^''^ have, can draw no other vapor out of these dis- 
utious, than heavy, secret, and sad sighs. He shall find 
thing remaining, but those sorrows, which grow up after 
^^ ^a.st- springing youth; overtake it, when it is at a stand; 
«ia c»-vertopped it utterly, when it begins to wither: in so 
_ UcH as looking hack from the very instant time, and from 
n«w being, the poor, diseased, and captive creature^ 



» 



hath as little sense of all hi^' former miseries and 
as he, that U most hle^scd in common opinions, hath of 
fore-passed pleasnrc . and delights. For whatsoeyer is 
behind us, H jii&t 'nothing : and what is to come, deceit! 
hope ktih it; " Omnia quae evcntura sunt, in incetto 
cent."" ' Only those few black swans, I must except: 
having had the grace to value worldly vanities at no mc 
. than their own price; do, by retaining the comfortable m( 
ory of a well acted life, behold death without dread, and 
grave without fear; and embrace both, as necessary guii 
to endless glory. 

For myself, this is my consolation, and all that I 
offer to others, that the sorrows of this life are but o! 
sorts: whereof the one hath reipect to God. the other,' 
the world- In the 6rst we complain to God a^inst oursel 
for our offences against Him; and confess, " Et Tu ji 
es in omnibus quae venerunt super nos." "And ThouJ 
Lord, are just in all that hath befallen us." In the 
we complain to ourselves against God: as if he had doni 
wrong, either in not giving us worldly goods and hoiK 
answering our appetites: or for taking them again fl 
us having had them; forgetting that humble and just 
knowledgment of Job, "the Lord hath given, and the I 
hath taken." To the first of which St, Paul hath promi 
blessedness: to the second, death. And out of doubt b| 
either a fool, or ungrateful to God, or both, that doth 
acknowledge, how mean soever his estate he, that the s 
is yet far greater than that which God oweth him: or I 
not acknowledge, how sharp soever his afflictions be, 
the same are yet far less, than those which are due 
him. And if an heathen wise man call the adversities ol 
world but " tributa vivendi," " the tributes of living ;" a ' 
Christian man ought to know them, and bear them, 
as the tributes of offending. He ought to bear them maill 
and resolvedly ; and not as those whining soldiers do, * 
gementes sequuntur imperalorem."" 

For seeing God, who is the author of all our traj 
hath written out for us and appointed us all the partBJ 





TO THE HIBTOEY OF THE WORLD 

are to play: and hath not, in their distribution, been partial 
to the most mighty princes of the worid ; that gave unto 
Dwius the part of the greatest emperor, and the part of 
the most miacrable beggar, a beggar begging water of an 
enemy, to quench tiie great drought of death : that appointed 
BlJMet to play the Grand Signior of the Turks in the mom- 
ing, and in the same day tlie footstool of Tamerlane (both 
which parts Valerian had also played, being taken by Sa- 
porej): that made Belisarius play the most victorious cap- 
tain, and lastly the part of a blind beggar; of which ck- 
anples many thousands may be produced : why should other 
men, who are but as the least worms, complain of wrong? 
Certainly there is no other account to be made of this ridic- 
ulous world, than to resolve, that the change of fortune on the 
great theatre, is but as the change of garments on the less. 
For when on the one and the other, every man wears but 
Ws own skin, the players arc all alike. Now, if any man 
out of weakness prize the passages of this world otherwise 
(for saith Petrarch, " Magni ingenii est revocare mentem 
S sensibus"") it ia by reason of that unhappy phantasy of 
"Urs, which forgeth in tiie brains of man all the miseries 
(the corporal excepted) whercunto he is subject. Therein 
't is, that misfortunes and adversity work all that they 
*Ork. For seeing Death, in the end of tlie play, takes from 
m whatsoever Fortune or Force takes from any one; it 
Were a foolish madness in the shipwreck of worldly things, 
Vhere all sinks but the sorrow, to save it. That were, as 
Seneca saith, " Fortunae succumbere, quod tristius est omni 
fato :" " To fall under Fortune, of' ail other the most miser- 
able destiny." 

Xut it is now time to sound a retreat; and to desire to be 
•accused of this long pursuit: and withai, that the good in- 
teiai, which hath moved me to draw the picture of time 
tia.st (which we call History) in so large a table, may also 
bes accepted in place of a better reason. 

The examples of divine providence, everywhere found 
(tile first divine histories being nothing else but a continu- 
ation of such examples) have persuaded me to fetch my 
l^eginmng from the beginning of all things: to wit. Creation, 
" It tilui eeeiil feaius to call becli Um mind from the md< 



DM SIB WALTER RALBIOR 

For though these two glorious ictions of th« Alndghtirl 
BO near, and (as it were) linked together, that the o 
sarily unptieth the other : Creation inferring Providence (fl 
what father forsaketh the child that he hath begotten?) a 
Providence pre-supposing Creation : yet many of those tl 
have seemed to excel in worldly wisdom, have gone abo 
to disjoin this coherence ; the epicure denying both C 
and Providence, but granting the world had i 
the Aristotelian granting Providence, but denying t 
creation and the beginning. 

Now although this doctrine of faith, touching the c 
in time (for by faith we understand, that the world u 
made by the word of God), be too weighty a work f 
Aristotle's rotten ground to bear up, upon which he hath ] 
(notwithstanding) founded the defences and fortresses of 
all his verba! doctrine: yet that the necessity of infinitB 
power, and the world's beginning, and the impossibility of 
' the contrary even in the judgment of natural reason, where- 
in he believed, had not better informed him; it is greatU 
to be marvelled at. And it is no less strange, that tb«' 
nen which are desirous of knowledge (seeing Aristotle baft 
failed in this main point ; and taught little athe~ than tettd 
in the rest) have so retrenched their minds from the folloiP 
ing and overtaking of truth, and so absolutely 
jected themselves to the law of those philosophical >■— ^™ 
ciples; as all contrary kind of teacliing, in the search <n 
causes, they have condemned either for phantastical, < 
curious. Both doth it follow, that the positions of heaths 
philosophers are undoubted grounds and principles indeed 
because so called? Or that ipsi dixemnl, doth make them W 
be such? Certainly no. But this is true, that where natural 
reason hath built anything so strong against itself, as t 
same reason can hardly assail it, much less batter it down! 
the same in every question of nature, and infinite powefi 
may be approved for a fundamental law of human knowW 
edge. For saith Charron in his book of wisdom, "Tout* 
proposition humaine a auiant d'authorite quel'autre, si b 
raison n'on fait la difference ;" " Every human proposidoi 
hath equal authority, if reason make not the difference," the 
feet being but the fables of principles. But hereof how shall 



TO THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD 



105 



the upright and impartial judgment of man give a sentence, 
where opposition and examination are not admitted to give 
in evidence? And to this purpose it was well said of Lac- 
tantius, " Sapienliam sibi adimunt. qui sine ullo judicio in- 
venta maiorum probant, et ab aliis pecudum more ducuntur:" 
"They neglect their own wisdom, who without any judg- 
ment approve the invention of those that forewent them; 
and suffer themselves after the manner of beasts, to be led 
y>y them;" by the advantage of which sloth and dullness, 
'Snorance is now become so powerful a tyrant, as it hath set 
ttue philosophy, physics, and divinity in a pillory; and writ- 
ten over the first, "Contra negantem principia;"" over tlie 
Stcond, "Virtus specifica;"" over the third, " Ecclesia 
Itomana."" 

But for myself, I shall never be persuaded, that God hath 
shut up all light of learning within the lanthom of Aris- 
lotle's brains: or that it was ever said unto him, as unto 
Esdras, " Accendam in carde ttio Lucernam intellectus"^ 
thai God hath given invention but to the heathen, and that 
they only invaded nature, and found the strength and bottom 
thereof; the same nature having consumed all her store, and 
left nothing of price to after-ages. That these and these 
be the causes of these and these effects, time hath taught 
us : and not reason : and so hath experience without art. The 
cheese-wife knoweth it as well as the philosopher, that sour 
rennet doth coagulate her milk into a curd. But if we ask 
a reason of this cause, why the sourness doth it? whereby 
it doth it? and the manner how? I think that there is 
nothing to be found in vulgar philosophy, to satisfy this 
and many other like vulgar questions. But man to cover his 
ignorance in the least things, who can not give a true 
reason for the grass under his feet, why it should be green 
rather than red, or of any other color; that could never yet 
discover the way and reason of nature's working, in those 
which are far less noble creatures than himself; who is far 
more noble than the heavens themselves: "Man (saith 
Solomon) that can hardly discern the things that are upon 

■'■Spscffic vShuT. ot ^wlr."' ""'"ffhe Roman Church." 
'**"! itull light B lamp o{ underMondins in thine heart." — IV. Eadiw 



SIR WALTER RALKIGH 

the eartb, and with great labor find out the diings that VS 
before us"; that hath so short a time in the world, as he 
no sooner begins to learn, than to die; tliat hath i 
memory but borrowed knowledge; in his tmderstanding, 
notliing truly; that is ignorant ol the essence of bis own 
soul, and which the wisest of the naturalists (if AristDiIe 
be he) i:auld never so much as define, but by the action and 
effect, telling us what it works (which all men knew as well 
as he) but not what it is, which neither he, nor any els^ 
doth know, but God that created it; ("For though I 
perfect, yet I know not my soul," saith Job). Man, I say. 
that is but an idiot in the next cause of his own life, a 
in the cause of all actions of h!s life, will (notwithstanding) 
examine the art of God in creating the world; of God, v 
(saith Job) " is so excellent as we know him not " ; and ex- 
amine the beginning of the work, which had end befoH 
mankind bad a beginning of being. He will disable God'l 
power to make a world, without matter to make it c 
will rather give the motes of the air for a cause; cast tM 
work on necessity or chance ; bestow the honor thereof on b 
ture ; make two powers, the one to be the author of the tnatti 
the other of the form; and lastly, for want of a workmai^ 
have it eternal: which latter opinion Aristotle, to make hint' 
self the author of a new doctrine, brought into the world) 
and his Sectators" have maintained it; " parati ac conjtinti, 
quos Eequuntur. philosophonim animis invictis opinionea 
tueri."" For Hermes, who lived at once with, or soon after 
Moses, Zoroaster, Musaeus, Orpheus, Linus, Anaximene^ 
Anaxagoras, Empedocles, Melissus, Phcrecydes, Thateqi 
Cleanthes, Pythagoras, Plato, and many other (whose opiil* 
ions are exquisitely gathered by Steuchias Eugubinus) fouoj 
in the necessity of invincible reason, " One eternal and ta* 
finite Being," to be the parent of the universal. "HonUB 
omnium sententia quamvis sit tncerta, eodem tamen spt 
ut Providentiara unam esse consentiant: sive eni 
sive aether, sive ratio, sive mens, sive fatalis necessitas, sivi 
dJvina lex : idem est quod a nobis dicitur Deus " : " All thtsj 
men's opinions (saith Laciantius) though uncertain, come H 

" Followcn. 

" " Prepared and sworn to proteel with unceaquertd mindi tbe o 
of the philoupheis whom the; follow." 



TO THE HISTORY OP THE ■WOHUJ 




this; That they agree upon one Providence; whether the 
ssttnf be nature, or I'glit, or reason, or understanding, 
destiny, or divine ordinance, that it is the same which we 
call God," Certainly, as all the rivers in the world, though 
they have divers risings, and divers runnings; though they 
sometimes hide themselves for a while under ground, and 
seem to be lost in sea-like lakes; do at last find, and fall 
into the great ocean: so after all the searches that human 
capacity hatli, and after all philosophical contemplation and 
curiosity; in the necessity of this infinite power, all the rea- 
son of man ends and dissolves itself. 

Ab for the others; the first touching those which conceive 
the matter of the world to have been eternal, and that God 
did Hot create the world " Exnihilo,"" but "ex materia 
praeexJstente " :" the supposition is so weak, as is hardly 
worth the answering. For (sailh Eusehius) " Mihi videntur 
qui hoc dicunt, fortunam quoque Deo aniiectere," "They 
atm unto me, which affirm this, to give part of the work to 
God, and part to Fortune": insomuch as if God had not 
found this first matter by chance, He had neither been au- 
thor nor father, nor creator, nor lord of the universal. For 
*cre the matter or chaos eternal, it then follows, that either 
this supposed matter did fit itself to God, or God aceommo- 
ii»te Himself to the matter. For the first, it is impossible, 
that things without sense could proportion themselves to 
the workman's will. For the second: it were horrible to 
conceive of God, that as an artificer He applied himself, 
according to the proportion of matter which He lighted 
Upon. 

But let it be supposed, that this matter hath been made 
by any power, not omnipotent, and infinitely wise ; I wouM 
gladly learn how it came to pass, that the same was pro- 
i»Tt(onab!e to his intention, that was omnipotent and infi- 
nitely wise ; and no more, nor no less, than served to receive 
^< form of the universal. For, had it wanted anything of 
what was sufficient ; then must it he granted, that God created 
<"" of nothing so much new matter, as served to finish the 
"^rlc of the world: or had there heen more of this matter 
'^a sufficed, then God did dissolve and annihilate whatao 

**" Out td nothing." ** " Out of pt»<xistuig matter." 



Sm WALTER RALEIOn 




I 
I 



ever remained and was superfluous. And t 

reasonable soul confess, that it is 

ilone, to create anything out of nothing, ; 

art and power, and by none other, can those things, or wxf. 

part of that eternal mailer, be again changed into nothii^} 

fay which those things, that once were nothing, obtained ■ 

beginning of being. 

Again, to say that this matter was the cause of itself; thi^ 
of all other, were the greatest idiotisin. For, if it were ttai 
cause of itself at any time; then there was also a time who 
itself was not: at which time of not being, it is easy enougl 
to conceive, that it could neither procure itself, nor aiqi 
thing else. For to be, and not to be, at once, is impossibS 
"Nihil autcm seipsum praecedit, nequc; seipsum compoq 
corpus " : " There is nothing that doth precede itself, neitlH 
do bodies compound themselves." 

For the rest, those that feign this matter to be eterMl 
must of necessity confess, that infinite cannot be separa) 
from eternity. And then had infinite matter left no plae 
for infinite form, but that the first matter was finite, tb 
form which it received proves it. For conclusion of thi 
part, whosoever will make choice, rather to believe in eterai 
deformity, or in eternal dead matter, than in eternal li^ 
and eternal life: let eternal death be his reward. For i 
is a madness of that kind, as wanteth terms to express i 
For what reason of man (whom the curse of presuraptio 
hath not stupefied) hath doubted, that infinite power (6 
which we can comprehend but a kind of shadow, " qui 
comprehensio est intra terminos, qui infinite repugnant"'' 
hath anything wanting in itself, either for matter of fora 
yea for as many worlds (if such had been God's will) ( 
the sea hath sands? For where the power is without liiu 
tation, the work hath no other limitation, than the workmai^ 
will. Yea reason itself finds it more easy for infinite pavri 
to deliver from itself a finite world, without the help ^ 
matter prepared; than for a finite man, a fool and duaj 
to change the form of matter made to his hands. They af 
Dionysius his words, " Deus in una existentia omnia pra* 

" " Beeauee campreh«iiioii ii beCwecD limitt, wblcb are oppowd I 



Iiabet " :" and again, " Esse ornnium est ipsa divinitas, omne 
quod vides, et quod non vides " :" to wit, " causaliter," or in 
better terms, " non tanquam forma, sed tanquam causa uni- 
versalis." " Neither hath the world universal closed up all 
of God: "For the most part of his works (saith Siracides) 
^^e hid." Neither can the depth of his wisdom be opened, 
by the glorious work of the world: which never brought 
to knowledge all it can; for then were his infinite power 
bounded and made finite. And hereof it comes; That we 
seldom entitle God the all-showing, or the all-willing; but 
the Almighty, that is, infinitely able. 

But now for those, who from that ground, "that out of 
nothing, nothing is made," infer the world's eternity ; and yet 
not so savage therein, as those are, which give an eternal be- 
ing to dead matter: it is true if the word (nothing) be taken 
in the affirmative; and the making, imposed upon natural 
agents and finite power; that out of nothing, nothing is 
made. But seeing their great doctor Aristotle himself 
confesseth, "quod omnes antiqui decreverunt quasi quodam 
rcrum principium, ipsumque infinitum:" "That all the an- 
cient decree a kind of beginning, and the same to be infinite " ; 
and a little after, more largely and plainly, " Principium 
Mus est nullum, sed Ipsura omnium cernitur esse principium, 
ac omnia, complecti ac regere " :" it is strange that this 
philosopher, with his followers, should rather make choice 
out of falsehood, to conclude falsely; than out of truth, to 
resolve truly. For if we compare the world universal, and 
all the unmeasureable orbs of Heaven, and those marvellous 
bodies of the sun, moon, and stars, with " ipsum infinitum": 
it may truly be said of them all, which himself affirms of 
his imaginary " Materia prima,"" that they are neither 
quid, quale," nor " quantum " ; and therefore to bring finite 
(which hath no proportion with infinite) out of infinite 
("qui destruit omnem proportionem"") is no wonder in 
God's power. And therefore Anaximander, Melistus, and 
Empedocles, call the world universal, but " particulam uni- 

all Ihin^ ir 



,,.,,. =«=..i,: of .11 thtnga, visible and invisible, ja divinity iladf." 
,., Causally." _ ■"■Not as form, but as univewal rause." 



Bo be 



It [i;. *.; the infinite] 



" " RilBif mi 



""Whicli destrojn all tuepoctian 



/HO SIR WALTER BALBIGH 

versitatis " and " iniiniiatis," a parcel of that which is thc^ 
universality and the infinity insdf ; and Plato, but a shadowr^ 
of Gad. But the other to prove the world's eternity, urgetli 
this maxim, "that, a sufficient and effectual cause beingf 
granted, an answerable eSect thereof is also granted " ; 
inferring that God being forever a suiBcicnt and elfectual 
cause of the world, the effect of the cause should also 
have been forever; to wit, the world universal. But what' 
a strange mockery is this in so great a master, to confess 
a Gutficient and efTectual cause of the world, (to wit, ati 
almighty God) in bis antecedent; and the same God to be' 
a God restrained in his conclusion; to make God free 
in power, and bound in will: able to effect, unable to de-' 
termtue ; able to make all things, and yet unable to make 
choice of the time when? For this were impiously to re- 
solve of God, as of natural necessity; which hath neither 
choice, nor will, nor understanding; which cannot but work 
matter being present: as fire, to burn things combustible. 
Again he thus disputeth, that every agent which can work, 
and doth not work, if it afterward work, it is cither 
thereto moved by itself, or by somewhat else: and so 
it passelh from power to act. But God (saith he) 
is immovable, and is neither moved by himself, nor by 
any other: but being always the same, doth always work. 
Whence he condudeth, if the world were caused by God, 
that he was forever the cause thereof: and therefore eternal. 
The answer to this is very easy, for that God's performing 
in due time that which he ever determined at length to 
perform, doth not argue any alteration or change, but 
rather constancy in him. For the same action of his will, 
which made the world forever, did also withhold the effect 
to the lime ordained. To this answer, in itself sufficient,, 
others add further, that the pattern or image of the world 
may be said to be eternal: which the Platonics call " spirit- 
ualem mundum " ;" and do in this sort distinguish the idea 
and creation in time. "Spiritualis ille mundus, mundi huins 
"xemplar, primumque Dei opus, vita aequali est architecto, 
fuit semper cum illo, eritque semper. Mundus autem cor- 
poialis, quod secundum opus est Dei, decedit iam ab opiSce 

""Tko ipititnal wOikL" 



IflD TRB mSTOBT OT THX VDBU> 

^ f^pjiA BdB fxut sdDpcrr iwlmt uttmi^ ^ 
fKzoBs': "Thu KprcsenUth«. or tl>e 1 
I (saj Acf) the sunficr of this viaUe vori^ 
t vmIe of God, was eqsftSy ancient «iA tbe u^^ 
r ii was f omtr tritfa bixn, and enr shaQ be. Tlsa 
I ■arid, ttw second woric or crcaiare of God, doth 
r IbtMi dK vocfccr in titu, ftxi it ms oot from cver^ 
i in Oift it dodi agree, that it iball be fot tt v r 
Tbt fint poiat, dot it m^ not forerer, all 
confess: ibe otber they nndentzad do odier- 
r Hud tbat after the coosoBntutioii of this «oHd, Umr 
■ _bc a new HeaTcn and a cew earth, without any new 
*^ ■ of matter. Bat of these thmgs we need itot here 
^ ts argBC : tboi^ mdi opinions be oot miwartfa; tbc 
~' ~ _ ' I this considenuioa, of an cteraal and m- 
I caose, pcod u dng a changeable and Rnponl 
Teaming which point Produs the PlatanEst dls- 
. dut Ifae com p o un ded essence of the worid (and 
e cmpoonded. therefore dissipaUe) is contituied, 
[ fcoit to the EHrinc Bnng, by an tDdiridual and in- 
t power, Sowing from Divine nnitf; aad tbat tbc 
r* natnral appetite of God ibowcth, that the same 
from a good and understanding divine; and 
' Oais vinue, by which the world fc coniinacd and Itnti 
t be infinite, that it may infinitely and eret- 
r coatinue and preserre tbc same. AVhich infinite 
^^^^ lie finite world (saith he) is not capable of, bat 
"*'**»<ah it from the diTioe infinite, according to the lera- 
*2| natare it hath, successircly ei-ery moment by little 
™? little; even as the whole materia) world is not al- 
^*||^*ier: but the abolished parts are departed by small 
7^^*^S, and the parts yet to come, do by the same small de- 
Jl^^^ sncceed: as the shadow of a tree in a rirer ^emetb 

- .***'*e continued tbc same a long time in the »-ater, bat 

- '^ perpetually renewed, in the continual ^bing and fiow- 
^%^ 'tliereof, 

^^^ *»l to renim to them, which denying that erer the 
^^ *"'<1 had any beginning, withal deny that ever it shall have 
a^^ ^Md. and to this purpose affirm, that it was nCTcr heard, 
*r read, never seen, no not by any reason perceived, ■ 



diet the besvcDs have ever suffered corruptioB; or &at tbcj 
•ppesT any way the older by continuance; or in any soft 
otherwise than they were; which had lliey been subject W 
final corruption, some change would have been discerned 
in so long a time. To this it is answered, that the Utile 
change as yet perceived, doth rather prove their newness, 
and that they have not continued so long; than that they 
will continue forever as they are. And if conjectur^ 
arguments may receive answer by conjectures; it then 
aeemeth (hat some alteration may be found. For other 
Aristotle, Pliny, Strabo, Bcda, Aquinas, and others, were 
grossly mistaken; or else those parts of the world lyil^ 
within the burnt lone, were not in elder times habitable 
by reason of the sun's heat, neither were the seas, under 
the equinoctial, navigable. But we know by experience 
that those regions, so situate, are filled with people, and 
exceeding temperate; and the sea, over which we navigate, 
passable enough. We read also many histories of deluges; 
and how in the time of Phaeton, divers places in the world 
were burnt up, by the sun's violent heat. 

But in a word, this observation is exceeding feeble. For 
we know it for certain, that stone walls, of matter moulder- 
ing and friable, have stood two, or three thousand years; 
that many things have been digged up out of the earth, 
of that depth, as supposed to have been buried by the gen- 
eral flood; without any alteration either of substance or 
figure: yea it is believed, and it is very probable, that tiw 
gold which is daily found in mines, and rocks, 
ground, was created together with the earth. 

And if bodies elementary, and compounded, the eldest 
times have not invaded and corrupted: what great 
teration should we look for in celestial and quint-essential 
bodies? And yet we have reason to think, that the sm 
by whose help all creatures are generate, doth not in thcM 
L latter ages assist nature, as heretofore. We have neitfaei 
I pants, such as the eldest world had; nor mighty meOj 
Buch as the elder world had; but all things in general are 
reputed of less virtue which from the heavens receive virtuf 
Whence, if the nature of a preface would permit a larg;et 
discourse, we might easily fetch store of proof; as tbat 




TO THE HISTOHT OP THE WORUO 

world shall at length have end, as that once it had 
begioning. 

And I see no good answer that can be made to this ob- 
jtction ; if the world were eternal, why not all things in 
tie world eternal? If there were no first, no cause, no 
filter, no creator, no incomprehensible wisdom, but that 
Wry nature had been alike eternal; and man more rational 
than every other nature : why had not the eternal reason 
of man provided for his eternal being in the world? For 
if all were equal why not equal conditions to all? Why 
iliould heavenly bodies live forever; and the bodies of men 
n>t and die? 

Again, who was it that appointed the earth to keep 

the center, and gave order that it should hang in the air: 

fliat the sun should travel between the tropics, and never 

'xceed those bounds, nor fail to perform that progress 

OBCe in every year: the moon to live by borrowed light: 

the fixed stars (according to common opinion) to be fastened 

'ike nails in a cartwheel; and the planets to wander at 

*ieir pleasure? Or if none of these had power over 

other: was it out of charity and love, that the sun by his 

perpetual travel within these two circles, hath visited, given 

Kght unto, and relieved all parts of the earth, and the 

creatures therein, by turns and times? Out of doubt, if 

t^c sun have of his own accord kept this course in all 

eternity, he may justly be called eternal charity and ever- 

'ssting love. The same may be said of all the stars ; who 

Deing all of them most large and clear fountains of virtue 

3ifi operation, may also, be called eternal virtues: the 

earth may be called eternal patience; the moon, an eternal 

borrower and beggar; and man of ail other the most mis- 

^.•"^-lile, eternally mortal. And what were this, but to be- 

J'^Ve again in the old play of the gods? Yea in more gods 

"y Tniliions, than ever Hesiodus dreamed of. But instead ■ 

*** this mad folly, we see it well enough with our feeble 

^Qd mortal eyes; and the eyes of our reason discern it 

^^tter; that the sun, moon, stars, and the earth, are limited 

"•^»»nded, and constrained: themselves they have not con- 

"gained nor could. " Omne determinatum causam habet 

*Hq_uam efficientem, quae illud determinaverit :" "Every- 



HI Kh WALTER RALllC 

thing bounded hath some efficient cause, by which !t (l 
bounded. " 

Now for Nature ; as by the ambigt;itf:y of this name, tht 
school of Aristotle hath both commended many errors tinto 
us, and sought also thereby to obscure the glory of (he 
high moderator of all things, shining in the creation, and 
in the governing of the world: so if the best definitlen 
be taken out of the second of Aristotle's " Physics," or 
*' primo de Coelo," or out of the fifth of his " Met*- 
physics " ; I say that the best is but nominal, and serv- 
ing only to difference the beginning of natural motion from 
artificial ; which yet the Academics open better, when they 
call it "a seminary strength, infused into matter by the 
soul of the world " : who give the first place to Providence, 
the second to Fate, and but the third to Nature. "PtotJ- 
dentia" (by which they understand God) "dux et caput; 
Fatum, medium ex providentia prodiens; Natura poitre* 
mum." ■ But be it what he will, or be it any of these (God 
excepted) or participating of all: yet that it hath choice 
or understanding (both which are necessarily in the cauK 
of all things) no man hath avowed. For this is unanswer- 
able of Lactanlius, " Is autem facit aliquid, qui aut volufl- 
talem faciendi habet, aut scientiam : " " He only can be 
said to be the doer of a thing, that hath cither will or 
knowledge in the doing it." 

But the will and science of Nature, are in these words 
truly expressed by Ficinus : " Potest ubique Natura, vel 
per diversa media, vel ex diversis materiis, diversa facerc: 
sublata vero medio rum materiatumque diversitate, vel 
cum, vel similimum opera tur, nequc potest quando adest 
materia non operari " ; " It is the power of Nature by the 
diversity of means, or out of diversity of matter, to produce 
divers things: but taking away the diversity of means, 
and the diversity of matter, it then works but one or the 
like work : neither can it but work, matter being present," 
Now if Nature made choice of diversity of matter, to 
work all these variable works of heaven and earth, it had 
then both understanding and will; it had counsel to begin; 




TO THE HISTORY OP TirE WORLD IIS 

to dispose; virtue and knowledge to finish, and power 
govern: without which all tilings had been but one and 
Itie same: ail of the matter of heaven; or all of the matter 
of earth, And if we grant Nature this will, and this un- 
derstanding, this course, reason, and power; "Cur Na- 
tura potius quam Deus nominetur?" "Why should we 
Ihen call such a cause rather Nature, than God?" "God, 
of whom all men have notion, and ^ive the first and high- 
est place to divine power": "Omnes homines notionem 
<(ooniin habent, omiiesque summum locum divino cuidam 
niuuini assignant," And this I say in short ; that it is a 
tm* effect of true reason in man (were there no au- 
thority more binding than reason) to acknowledge and 
adore the first and most sublime power. "Vera philo- 
iophia, est ascensus ab his quae fluunt, et oriuntur, et oc- 
cicJunt, ad ea quae vera aunt, et semper eadem": "True 
philosophy, is an ascending from the things which flow, 
»tid arise, and fall, to the things that are forever the 
same." 

Tor the rest; I do also account it not the meanest, but 
an impiety monstrous, to confound God and Nature; he 
it but in terms. For it is God. that only disposeth of all 
things according to His own will and tnaketh of one 
earth, vessels of honor and dishonor. It is Nature that 
can dispose of nothing, but according to the will of the 
Matter wherein it worketh. It is God that commandeth 
3U; It is Nature that is obedient to all: it is God that doth 
ffOod unto all, knowing and loving the good He doth: it 
J^ Mature, that secondarily doth also good, but it neither 
•"Joweth nor loveth the good it doth. It is God, that hath 
^' things in Himself: Nature, nothing in itself. It is 
P***i, which is the Father, and hath begotten all things: 
', is Nature, which is begotten by all things, in which it 
"'eth and laboreth; for by itself it existeth not. For shall 
^^ saj, that it is out of affection to the earth, that heavy 
thing5 fall towards it? Shall we call it reason, which doth 
^nduct every river into the salt sea? Shall we term 
^*^ kjiowledge in fire, that makes it to consume combustible 
matter? If it be affection, rea.son, and knowledge in these; 
^S the same affection, reason, and knowledge it Is, that 



SIR WALTER ftALEIGR 

Nature vorketh. And therefore seeing all things work as 
they do, (call 't by Form, or Nature, or by what you 
please) yet because they work by an impulsion, which tiey 
cannot resist, or by a faculty, infused by tlie supremest 
power; we are neither to wonder at, nor to worship, the 
faculty that workcth, nor the creature wherein it worketh. 
But herein lies the wonder: and to him is the worship due, 
who hath created such a nature in things, and such a faculty, 
as neither knowing itself, the matter wherein it worketh, 
nor the virtue and power which it hath ; do yet work all 
things to their last and uttermost perfection. And there- 
fore every reasonable man, taking to himself for a ground 
that which is granted by all antiquity, and by all men truly 
learned that ever the world had; to wit; that there is a 
power infinite, and eternal (which also necessity doth prove 
unto us, without the help of faith, and reason; without the 
force of authority) all things do as easily follow which 
have been delivered by divine letters, as the waters of a 
running river do successfully pursue each other from the 
first fountains. 

This much I say it is, that reason itself hath taught us: 
and this is the beginning of knowledge. " Sapientia prae- 
cedit, Religio sequitur: quia prius est Deura scire, conse- 
quens colere"; "Sapience goes before. Religion follows: 
because it is first to know God, and then to worship Him." 
This sapience Plato calleth " absoluti boni scientiam," " the 
science of the absolute good": and another "scientiam re- 
rum primarum, sempiternarum, perpetuarum."" For " faitl] 
(saith Isidore) is not extorted by violence; but by reason 
and examples persuaded ": " fides nequaqiiam vi extorquetur, 
sed ratione et exemplis suadetur." I confess it, that to 
inquire further, as to the essence of God, of His power, 
of His art, and by what means He created the world: or 
of His secret judgment, and the causes, is not an eEEect 
of reason. " Sed cum ratione insaniunt," but " they grow 
mad with reason," that inquire after it. For as it is no 
shame, nor dishonor (saith a French author) "de faire 
arrest au but qu'on nasceu surpasser," " tor a man to 
I reat himself there where he finds it impossible to pass on 

■* " The leieiice of thlags &tM, clEtnal. perpetual.'' 




TO THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD 

fiiither": so whatsoever is beyond, and out of the reach 
of true reason, it acknowledgeth it to be so; as under- 
sianding iiself not to be infinite, but according to the 
name and nature it hath, to be a teacher, that best knows 
the end of his own art. For seeing both reason and neces- 
sity teach us (reason, which is "pars divini spiritus in 
corpus humanum mersi"") that the world was made by 
a power infinite; and yet how it was made, it cannot teach 
ns; and seeing the same reason and necessity make us 
laiow, that the same infinite power is everywhere in the 
World; and yet how everywhere, it cannot inform us: our 
belief hereof is not weakened, but greatly strengthened, 
by our ignorance, because it is the same reason that tells 
us, that such a nature cannot be said to be God, that can 
be in all conceived by man. 

I have already been over-long, to make any large dis- 
course either of the parts of the following story, or in 
Mine own excuse: especially in the excuse of this or that 
passage; seeing the whole is exceeding weak and defec- 
tive. Among the grossest, the unsuitable division of the 
books, I could not know how lo excuse, had I not been 
directed to enlarge the building after the foundation was 
laid, and the first part finished. All men know that there 
is no great art in the dividing evenly of these things, 
which are subject to number and measure. For the rest, 
it suits well enough with a great many books of this age, 
which speak too much, and yet say little; "Ipsi nobis 
farto subducimur"; " We are stolen away from ourselves," 
setting a high price on all that is our own. But hereof, 
though a late good writer make complaint, yet shall it not 
lay hold on me. because I believe as he doth; that who 
so thinks himself the wisest man, is but a poor and mis- 
erable ignorant. Those that are the best men of war against 
"" the vanities and fooleries of the world, do always keep 
"le strongest guards against themselves, to defend them 
'""oin themselves; from self-love, self-estimation, and se!f- 
"P'nion. 

*^«nerally concerning the order of the work. I have only 
"*^ d a counsel from the argument. For of the Assyrians, 

*■ " Fart of tbe divine spirit iaunermj in the human body." 



nR WALTER RALEIGH 

which after th« downfall of Babel take up the first pUt, 
and were the fint great kings of the world, there came little 
to the view of posterity: some few enterprises, greater la 
fame than faith, of Ninus and Semiramis, excepted. 

It was the story of the Hebrews, of all before the OJyi 
piads. that overcame the consuming disease of time, and 
preserved itself, from the very cradle and beginning to this 
day: and yet not so entire, but that the large discoursei 
thereof (to which in many Scriptures we arc referred) arC 
nowhere found. The fragments of other stories, "tfith ibt 
actions of those kings and princes which shot up here and 
there in the same time, I am driven to relate by way of 
digression : of which we may say with Virgil : " Apparent 
rari names in gurgite vaato " ; " They appear here and thcr* 
floating in the great gulf of time." 

To the same first ages do belong the report of many inven- 
tions therein found, and from them derived to us; though 
most of the authors' names have perished in so long a navi- 
gation. For those ages had their laws; they had diversity 
of government; they had kingly rule; nobility: policy in 
war; navigation, and all, or the most of needful trades. Ttt 
speak therefore of these (seeing in a general history wt 
diould have left a great deal of nakedness, by their omis- 
sion) it cannot properly be called a digression. True I( 
is, that I have made also many others: which if they shall 
be laid to my charge. I must cast the fault into the great 
heap of human error. For seeing we digress in all thA 
ways of our lives; yea, seeing the life of man is nothing eiss 
but digression; I may the better be excused, in writing thetf 
lives and actions. I am not altogether ignorant in the 
of history and of the kinds. 

The same hatii been taught by many, but no man better, 
and with greater brevity, than by that excellent leametf. 
gentleman. Sir Francis Bacon. Christian laws are also 
taught us by the prophets and apostles ; and every da/" 
preached unto us. But we still make large digressions: yca^ 
the teachers themselves do not (in all) keep the path which' 
they point out to others. 

For the rest, after such time as the Persians had wrested 
the Empire from the Chaldeans, and had raised a great 



TO THE HISTORY OP THE WORLD 



lie 



monarchy, producing actions of more importance than were 
eisewhere to be found; it was agreeable to the order of the 
story, to attend this Empire; whilst it so flouriEhed, that the 
■ffairs of the nations adjoining had reference thereunto. 
Tile like observance was to be used towards the fortunes of 
GrcKe, when they again began to get ground upon the 
Persians; as also towards the affairs of Rome, when tlie 
Rotnans grew more mighty than the Greeks. 

.As for the Medes, the Macedonians, the Sicilians, the 
Carlhaginians, and other nations who resisted the beginnings 
of the former empires, and afterwards became but partg 
of their composition and enlargement; it seemed best to 
rexnember what was known of them from their several be- 
girinbgs. In such times and places as they in their flourish- 
ing estates opposed those monarchies, which in the end 
K'W^allowed them up. And herein I have followed the best 
Biographers ; who seldom give names to those small brooks, 
w^hereof many, joined together, make great rivers: till such 
times as they become united, and run in main stream to the 
ocean sea. If the phrase be weak, and the style not every- 
where like itself: the first shows their legitimation and true 
parent; the second will excuse itself upon the variety of mat- 
tcr. For Virgil, who wrote his Eclogues, " gracili avens,'"* 
«Scd stronger pipes, when he sounded the wars of Aeneas. 
It may also be laid to my charge, that I use divers Hebrew 
W^rds in my first book, and elsewhere : in which language 
others may think and I myself acknowledge it, that I am 
altogether ignorant: but it is true, that some of them I find 
■n Montanus, others in Latin characters in S. Senensis; 
^'^d of the rest I have borrowed the interpretation of some 
*** my friends. But say I had been beholding to neither, yet 
J ^rc it not to be wondered at, having had an eleven years' 
eisure, to attain the knowledge of that, or of any other 
Onguc ; howsoever, I know that it will be said by many, that 
"light have been more pleasing to the reader, if I had 
*^tten the story of mine own times, having been permitted 
^ draw water as near the well-head as another. To this 
answer, that whosoever in writing a modern history, shall 
oUow truth too near the heels, it may haply strike out his 

•■ ■■ With delicite pipe." 



[20 



STR WALTER RALEIGH 



teeth. There is no mistress or guide, that hath led 1 
followers and servants into greater miseries. He that gl 
after her too far off, ioseth her sight, and loseth himsa 
and he that walks after her at a middle distance: I know d 
whether I should call that kind of course, temper," or bn 
ncss. It is true, that I never travelled after men's opinitM 
when I might have made the best use of them: and I ha 
now too few days remaining, to imitate those, that eia 
out of extreme ambition, or of extreme cowardice, or txl 
do yet (when death hath them on his shoulders) flatter f 
world, between the bed and the grave. It is enough I 
me (being in that slate I am) to write of the eldest tinH 
wherein also why may it not be said, that in speaking of 1 
past, I point at (he present, and tax the vices of those n 
arc yet living, in their persons that are long since dead; ■ 
have it laid to my charge? But this I cannot help, thotl 
innocent. And certainly, if there be any, that finding ^m 
selves spotted like the tigers of old time, shall find fault in 
me for painting them over anew, they shall therein acel 
themselves jusdy, and me falsely. | 

For I protest before the Majesty of God, that I malicel 
man under the sun. Impossible I know it is to plerse ■ 
seeing few or none are so pleased with themselves, or] 
assured of themselves, by reason of their subjection to tn 
private passions, but that they seem divers persons in a 
and the same day. Seneca hath said it, and so do I : " Ui 
mihi pro populo erat";" and to the same effect Epicun 
"Hoc ego non multis sed tibi " ;" or (as it hath since lamM 
ably fallen out) I may borrow the resolution of an ancb 
philosopher, "Satis est unus, satis est nulius."" For it ^ 
for the service of that inestimable Prince Henry, the ; 
cessive hope, and one of the greatest of the Oiristian n 
that I undertook this work. It pleased him to peruse s 
part thereof, and to pardon what was amiss. It is now l{ 
to the world without a master: from which all that is j 
sented, hath received both blows and thanks: " Ea<j^ 
probamus, eadera reprehendimus : hie exitus est 



" Modcralion. 
""I {have don 
•• " One 1e cnou 



"To n 



TO THE HISTORY OP THE WOBLD 121 

judicii, in quolis secundum plures datur."*' But these dis- 
courses are idle. I know that as the charitable will judge 
charitably: so against those, "Qui gloriantur in malitia/*** 
my present adversity hath disarmed me. I am on the grotmd 
already, and therefore have not far to fall: and for rising 
again, as in the natural privation there is no recession to 
habit; so it is seldom seen in the privation politic. I do 
therefore forbear to style my readers gentle, courteous, and 
friendly, thereby to beg their good opinions, or to promise 
a second and third volume (which I also intend) if the 
first receive grace and good acceptance. . For that which is 
already done, may be thought enough, and too much : and it 
is certam, let us claw the reader with never so many 
courteous phrases, yet shall we evermore be thought fools, 
that write foolishly. For conclusion, all the hope I have lies 
in this, that I have already found more tmgentle and un- 
courteous readers of my love towards them, and well- 
deserving of them, than ever I shall do again. For had it 
been otherwise, I should hardly have had this leisure, to have 
made myself a fool in print. 

iJHZ^^ approve the same thinffs, we blame the same thiiiffs: this isthere^ 

™ « w£[^J*'^ *F ^^^9.^ % verdict it rendered accordinc to the majority." 
Who glory in matiee." 






' PROCEMIUM, EPISTLE 
DEDICATORY, PREFACE, 

AND PLAN OF THE INSTAURATi 
MAGNA, ETC. 

BY FRANCIS BACON 

FRANCIS OF VERULAM REASONED THUS WlT* 
HIMSELF, 

I Amd Judged it to be rot the Ikteeest op the Prbsk*** 
AND Future Generations That Thev Should ^W* 

Made Acquainted wtth His Thougbte 

BEING convinced that the human intellect makes > '^^ 
own difficulties, not using the true helps which a» _ ^ 
at man's disposal soberly and judiciously; wheo^— ^ 
follows manifold ignorance of things, and by reason of tb: 
ignorance mischiefs innumerable; he thought all trial shoi 
be made, whether that commerce between the mind of 
and the nature of things, which is more precious than an; 
thing on earth, or at least than anything that is of the 
might by any means be restored to its perfect and origio= 
I condition, or if that may not be, yet reduced to a better co— 
dition than that in which it now is. Now that the erro^ 
which have hitherto prevailed, and which will prevail fo- 
ever, should (if the mind be left to go its own way), eith ■ 
by the natural force of the understanding or by help ^ 



; Harya 



I be found 

daisies. 
■It hy which 

s tchcoie 11 



sf- 



n, wai Mt far tr- 

Pt}f oil which It " 
! typical both of 



INSTAUBATIO MAGNA 

the aids and instruments of Logic, one by one correct them- 
selves, wae a thing not to be hoped for: because the primary 
notions of things which the mind readily and passively 
imbibes, stores up. and accumulates (and it is from them that 
all the rest flow) are false, confused, and overhastity ab- 
stracted from the facts; nor are the secondary and sub- 
sequent notions less arbitrary and inconstant; whence it 
follows that the entire fabric of human reason which we 
employ in the inquisition of nature, is badly put together 
and built up, and like some magnificent structure witliout 
Uiy foundation. For while men are occupied in admiring 
and applauding the false powers of the mind, they pass by 
and throw away those true powers, which, if it be sup- 
plied with the proper aids and can itself be content to wait 
I npon nature instead of vainly affecting to overrule her, 
are within its reach. There was but one course left, there- 
lore, — to try the whole thing anew upon a better plan, and 
I to commence a total reconstruction of sciences, arts, and all 
human knowledge, raised upon the proper foundations. And 
this, though in the project and undertaking it may seem a 
thing infinite and beyond the powers of maji, yet when it 
comes to be dealt with it will be found sound and sober, 
wore so than what has been done hitherto. For of this there 
IS aome issue; whereas in what is now done in the matter of 
^t'Dce there is only a whirling round about, and perpetual 
^'tation, ending where it began. And although he was well 
3ware how solitary an enterprise it is, and how hard a thing 
*o Win faith and credit for, nevertheless he was resolved not 
Jo abandon either it or himself ; nor to be deterred from try- 
""e and entering upon that one path which is alone open to 
'he human mind. For better it is to make a beginning of 
*hat which may lead to something, than to engage in a per- 
P^Hial struggle and pursuit in courses which have no exit. 
"^^d certainly the two ways of contemplation are much like 
"^Ose two ways of action, so much celebrated, in this — that 
J'^C one, arduous and difficult in the beginning. leads out at 
*st. into the open country; while the other, seeming at first 
®*eht easy and free from obstruction, leads to pathless and 
**''ecipilous places. 

"" "toreover, because be knew not how long it might be 



FRANCIS BACON 



■uld ( 



r to any one else, judgr" 

. that he has found no man hitherto r^ 
d to the like, he resolved to publish 
'. has been able to complete. The ca^ 
not ambition for himself, but solidtu- 
case of his death there might r 



before these tilings v 

especially from this, 1 
has applied his mil 
once so much as h 
of which haste was 
for the work; that 

some outline and project of that which he had conceiv ■• 
and some evidence likewise of his honest mind and incli^r-« 
lion towards the benefit of the human race. Certain it 
that all other ambition whatsoever seemed poor in his e^-*^ 
compared with the work which he had in hand; seeing tE-» 
the matter at issue is either nothing, or a thing so great t^-» - 
it may well be content with its own merit, without seek" 
other recompeace. 



^ 

^^, 



EPISTLE DEDICATORY 

" TO THE INSTAURATIO MAGNA. 

Xo ouK Most Gracious and Mighty Prince and Lord 

JAMES 

BY THE GRACE OF GOD 

GREAT BRITAIN, FRANCE AND IRELAND 

KING, DEFENDER OF THE FAITH, ETC. 



■** cj( Gracious and Mighty King, 

^^T'OUR Majesty may periiaps accuse me of larceny, hav- 
^/ ing stolen from your affairs so much time as was re- 
~ * quired for this work. I know not what to say for 
ttiyself. For of tirae there can be no restitution, unless it be 
that what has been abstracted from your business may per- 
haps go to the memory of your name and the honour of your 
age; if these things are indeed worth anything. Certainly 
th^y are quite new; totally new in their very kind: and yet 
tliey are copied from a very ancient model ; even the world it- 
Self sind the nature of things and of the mind. And to say 
tnjth, I am wont for my own part to regard this work as a 
child of time rather than of wit ; the only wonder being that 
the first notion of the thing, and such great suspicions con- 
cerning matters long established, should have come into any 
man's mind. All the rest follows readily enough. And no 
doubt there Is something of accident (as we call it) and luck 
as well in what men think as in what they do or say. But for 
this accident which I speak of, I wish that if there be any 
good in what I have to offer, it may be ascribed to the infinite 
mercy and goodness of God, and to the felicity of your 
Majesty's times; lo which as I have been an honest and 
aff«tionate servant in my life, so after my death I may yet 
perhaps, through the kindling of this new light in the dark- 
of philosophy, be the means of making this age famous 



226 FRANCIS BACON 

to posterity; and surely to the times of the wisest and most 
learned of kings belongs of right the regeneration and res- 
toration of the sciences. Lastly, I have a request to make— 
a request no way unworthy of your Majesty, and which 
especially concerns the work in hand; namely, tbat you who 
resemble Solomon in so many things — in the gravity of your 
judgments, in the peacefitiness of your reign, in the largeness 
of your heart, in the noble variety of the books which you 
have composed — would further follow his example in taldng 
order for the collecting and perfecting of a Natural and 
Experimental History, true and severe (unincumbered with 
literature and book-learning), such as philosophy may be 
built upon, — such, in fact, as I shall in its proper place 
describe : that so at length, after the lapse of so many ages, 
philosophy and the sciences may no longer float in air, bat 
rest on the solid foundation of experience of every kind, 
and the same well examined and weighed. I have provided 
the machine, but the stuff must be gathered from the facts of 
nature. May God Almighty long preserve your Majesty! 
Your Majesty's 

Most bounden and devoted Servant, 

Francis Verulam, 

Chancellor* 










TO THE INSTAURATIO MAGNA 



'hat the state of knowledge is not prosperous nor greatiy 
advancing; and that a way twist be opened for the hu~ 
man understanding entirely different from any hitherto 
known, and other helps provided, in order that the mind 
may exercise over the nature of things the anlhority 
which properly belongs to it. 

r SEEMS to me that men do not rightly understand 
either their store or their strength, but overrate the one 
and underrate the other. Hence it follows, that either 
from an extravagant estimate of the value of the arts which 
they poseess, they seek no further ; or else from too mean an 
estimate of their own powers, they spend their strength in 
small matters and never put it fairly to the trial in those 
iwhich go to the main. These are as the pillars of fate set 
in the path of knowledge; for men have neither desire nor 
hope to encourage them to penetrate further. And since 
opinion of store is one of the chief causes of want, and sat- 
isfaction with the present induces neglect of provision for 
the future, it becomes a thing not only useful, but absolutely 
nectssary, that the excess of honour and admiration with 
which onr existing stock of inventions is regarded be in 
the Very entrance and threshold of the work, and that frankly 
^^ without circumlocution, stripped off, and men be duly 
Warned not to exaggerate or make too much of them. For 
'^t a man look carefully into all that variety of books with 
*Wch the arts and sciences abound, he will find everywhere 
^dless repetitions of the same thing, varying in the method 
of treatment, but not new in substance, insomuch that the 
*hoIe stock, numerous as it appears at 6rst view, proves on 
^'^^tnination to be but scanty. And for its value and utility 
" Qiii^t be plainly avowed tliat that wisdom which we have 



FRANCIS BACON 

derived principally from the Greeks is but like the boybi 

of knowledge, and has the characteristic property of boys 
it can talk, but it cannot generate; for it is fruitful of contro- 
I versies but barren of works. So that the state of learning 

as it now is appears to be represented to the life in the olc 
fable of Scylla, who had the head and face of a virgin, bui 
her womb was hung round with barking monsters, 
which she could not be delivered. For in like mann 
sciences lo which we are accustomed have certain genei 
positions which are specious and flattering; but as soon as 
they come to particulars, which are as the parts of genera- 
tion, when they should produce fruit and works, then arise 
contentions and barking disputations, which are the end oi 
the matter and all the issue they can yield. Observe also, thai 
if sciences of this kind had any life in them, that cotilf^B^H 
never have come to pass which has been the case now fot—'^^H 
many ages — that they stand almost at a stay, without receiv — —^M 
ing any augmentations worthy of the human race; insomuch -^^ 
that many times not only what was asserted once is asserted-^Bl 
still, but what was a question once is a question still, and_^E 
instead of being resolved by discussion is only fixed and-^EJ 
fed; and all the tradition and succession of schools is still -•^-' 
a succession of masters and scholars, not of inventors and-t-W 
those who bring to further perfection the things invented. — *■ 
In the mechanical arts we do not find it so; they, on the^^-* ^ 

contrary, as having in them some breadi of life, are con *" 

tinually growing and becoming more perfect As originally -">iC 1 
invented they are commonly rude, clumsy, and shapeless;.^ ■* 
afterwards they acquire new powers and more commodious^s -■ 
arrangements and constructions; in so far that men shallX-^' 
sooner leave the study and pursuit of them and turn to*::^-' 
something else, than they arrive at the ultimate perfcctioo.«:^«'' 
of which they are capable. Philosophy and the intellectual .^-^ 
sciences, on the contrary, stand like statues, worshiped aniK-*--* 
celebrated, but not moved or advanced. Nay, they som*-^-^ 
times flourish most in the hands of the first author. and.K-»< 
afterwards degenerate. For when men have once made over -— ^ 
their judgments to others' keeping, and (like those senators . g=^^ 
whom they called Pedarii) have agreed to support some onL- m* 
person's opinion, from that time they make no enlargement^^* 

^ i 



of the sciences themselves, but fail to the servile office of 
onhdlishing certain individual authors and increasing their 
retinue. And let it not be said that the sciences have been 
growing gradually till ihey have at last reached their full 
stature, and so (their course being completed) have settled 
■n the works of a few writers; and that there being now no 
room for the invention of better, all that remains is to em- 
"•cllish and cultivate those things which have been invented 
already. Would it were so ! But the truth is that this appro- 
priating of the sciences has its origin in nothing better than 
the confidence of a few persons and the sloth and indolence 
"f the rest. For after the sciences had been in several parts 
Perhaps cultivated and handled diligently, there has risen 
^P some man of bold disposition, and famous for methods 
*"<i short ways which people like, who has in appearance 
'"Cduced them to an art, while he has in fact only spoiled all 
J^t the others had done. And yet this is what posterity 
'ilce, because it makes the work short and easy, and saves 
'"Jrther inquiry, of which they are weary and impatient. 
And if any one take this general acquiescence and consent 
*Of an argument of weight, as being the judgment of Time, 
^et me tell him that the reasoning on which he relies is most 
fallacious and weak. For, first, we are far from knowing all 
•Jiat in the matter of sciences and arts has in various ages 
^*d places been brought to light and published ; much less, 
^I that has been by private persons secretly attempted and 
Stirred; so neither the births nor the miscarriages of Time 
*lre entered in our records. Nor, secondly, is the consent 
Itself and the lime it has continued a consideration of much 
"Worth. For however various are the forms of civil politics, 
there is but one form of polity in the sciences; and that 
always has been and always will be popular. Now the 
doctrines which find most favour with the populace are 
Chose which are either contentious and pugnacious, or 
specious and empty; such, I say, as either entangle assent 
or tickle it. And therefore no doubt the greatest wits in 
each successive age have been forced out of their own 
course; men of capacity and intellect above the vulgar hav- 
ing been fain, for reputation's sake, to bow to the judgment 
of th e time and the multitude; and thus if any contempla- 
te) HC~Vol.8B 



FRANCIS BAOON 



J 




Hon* of a higher order took light anywhere, they wee- 
presently blown out by the winds of vulgar opinions. &■ -o 
that Time is like a river, which has brought down to t^^^s 
things light and puffed up, while those which are weights y 
and solid have sunk. Nay, those very authors who hai^*^*^ 
usurped a kind of dictatorship in the sciences and taken up<^ ** 
them to lay down the law with such confidence, yet whe= "«*■ 
from time to lime they come to themselves again, they fa ^^1 
to complaints of the subtlety of nature, the hiding-plac 
of truth, the obscurity of things, the entanglement of causes 
the weakness of the human mind: wherein nevertheless the_ 

show themselves never the more modest, seeing that Xhr ■ 

will rather lay the blame upon the common condition o— 
man and nature than upon themselves. And then whateve 
any art fails to attain, they ever set it down upon the auj 
thority of (hat art itself as impossible of attainment; 
how can art be found guilty when it is judge in its ' 
cause? So it is but a device for exempting ignorance fron: 
ignominy. Now for those things which are delivered ancJ.^ - 
received, this is their condition: barren of works, full or ^ 
questions; in point o£ enlargement slow and languid; carry— ^^i 
ing a show of perfection in the whole, but in the parts ill -^- 
flUed up; in selection popular, and unsatisfactory even tc;^— 
those who propound them; and therefore fenced round an£i*'^ 
set forth with sundry artifices. And if there be any whc^:* ^ 
have determined to make trial for themselves, and put theirs -■ 
own strength to the work of advancing the boundaries o^t ■* 
the sciences, yet have they not ventured to cast themselve^s ^ 
completely loose from received opinions or to seek theirs * 
knowledge at the fountain ; but they think they have done^^-* 
some great thing if they do hut add and introduce into the^ ' 
existing sum of science something of their own; prudently- 
considering with themselves that by making the additioiu 
they can assert their liberty, while they retain the credit of^^ * 
modesty by assenting to the rest. But these mediocrities^^ "* 
ahd middle ways so much praised, in deferring to opinions-^^^^ 
and customs, turn to the great detriment of the sciences.-—- ■ '^ 
For it is hardly possible at once to admire an author and tO'^^^^^ 
go beyond him; knowledge being as water, which will not_^ 
rise above the level from which it fell Men of this 1 ' 



Irind. ■ M 



mSTAURATIO MAGNA 



m therefore, amend some things, but advance little; and iin- 
'9 prove the condition of knowledge, but do not extend its 
fsnge. Some, indeed, there have been who have gone more 
boldly to work, and taking it all for an open matter and 
giving their genius full play, have made a passage for them- 
selves and their own opinions by pulling down and demolish- 
ing former ones; and yet all their stir has but little ad- 
vanced the matter; since their aim has been not to extend 
philosophy and the arts in substance and value, but only to 
change doctrines and transfer the kingdom of opinions to 
themselves ; whereby little has indeed been gained, for 
though the error be the opposite of the other, the causes 
of erring are the same in both. And if there have been 
^ny who, not binding themselves either to other men's opin- 
ions or to their own, but loving liberty, have desired to en- 
Sage others along with themselves in search, these, though 
"Ouest in intention, have been weak in endeavour. For they 
**ave been content to follow probable reasons, and are car- 
']i's<3 round in a whirl of arguments, and in the promiscuous 
ilberty of search have relaxed the severity of inquiry. There 
'® none who has dwelt upon experience and the facts of 
5**tnrc as long as is necessary. Some there are indeed who 
^Ve committed themselves to the waves of experience, and 
'^'*tiost turned mechanics; yet these again have in their very 
'^periments pursued a kind of wandering inquiry, with- 
j_^^l any regular system of operations. And besides they 
*^^ve mostly proposed to themselves certain petty tasks, 
dicing it for a great matter to work out some single dis- 
^^very ; — a course of proceeding at once poor in aim and 
l***ski!£ul in design. For no man can rightly and successfully 
J'lvesttgate the nature of anything in the thing itself; let 
**iin vary bis experiments as lahoriously as he will, he never 
^omes to a resting-place, but still finds something to seek 
■ieyond. And there is another thing to be remembered; 
lamely, that all industry in experimenting has begun with 
Proposing to itself certain deSnile works to be accom- 
plished, and has pursued them with premature and unsea- 
sonable eagerness; it has sought, I say, experiments of 
t'ruit, not experiments of Light; not imitating the divine 
procedure, which in its first day's work created liglit only 




and assi^ed to it one entire day ; on which day it produced 
L no material work, but proceeded to that on the dajrs follow- 
As for those who have given ihe 6rst place to Logic, 
supposing that the surest helps to the sciences were to be 
found in that, they have indeed most truly and excellently 
perceived that the human intellect left to its own course 
is not to be trusted; but then the remedy is altogether too 
weak for the disease; nor is it without evil in itself. For 
the Logic which is received, though it be very properly ap- 
plied to civil business and to those arts which rest in dis- 
course and opinion, is not nearly subtle enough to deal with 
nature ; and in offering at what it cannot master, has done 
more to establish and perpetuate error than to open the 
way to truth. 

Upon the whole therefore, it seems that men have not 
been happy hitherto either in the trust which they have 
placed in others or in their own industry with regard to 
the sciences; especially as neither the demonstrations nor 
the experiments as yet known are much to be relied upon. 
But the universe to the eye of the human understanding is 
framed like a labyrinth ; presenting as it does on every side 
so many ambiguities of way, such deceitful resemblances 
of objects and signs, natures so irregular in their lines, and 
so knotted and entangled. And then the way is still to tie 
made by the uncertain light of the sense, sometimes shining 
out, sometimes clouded over, through the woods of experi- 
ence and particulars; while those who offer themselves for 
guides are (as was said) themselves also puzzled, and in- 
crease the number of errors and wanderers. In circum- 
stances so difficult neither the natural force of man's judg- 
ment nor even any accidental felicity offers any chance of 
success. No excellence of wit, no repetition of chance ex- 
periments, can overcome such difficulties as these. Our 
steps must be guided by a clue, and the whole way from 
the very first perception of the senses must be laid out npoa 
a sure plan. Not that I would be understood to mean tfiat 
nothing whatever has been done in so many ages by so 
great labours. We have no reason to be ashamed of the 
discoveries which have been made, and no doubt the ancients 
proved themselves in everything that turns on wit aadi 



INSTAURATIO MAGNA 

abstract meditation, wonderful men. But as in former 
ages when men sailed only by observation of the stars, they 
could indeed coast along the shores of the old continent or 
cross a few small and mediterranean seas; but before the 
ocean could be traversed and the new world discovered, 
the use of the mariner's needle, as a more faithful and 
certain guide, had to be found out; in like manner the 
discoveries which have been hitherto made in the arts and 
sciences are such as might be made by practice, medita- 
tion, observation, argumentation, — for they lay near to the 
senses, and immediately beneath common notions; but be- 
fore we can reach the remoter and more hidden parts of 
nature, it is necessary that a more perfect use and applica- 
tion of the human mind and intellect be introduced. 

For my own part at least, in obedience to the everlasting 
love of truth, I have committed myself to the uncertainties 
and difficulties and solitudes of the ways, and relying on the 
divine assistance have upheld my mind both against the shocks 
and embattled ranks of opinion, and against my own private 
and inward hesitations and scruples, and against the fogs 
and clouds of nature, and the phantoms flitting about on every 
side; in the hope of providing at last for the present and 
future generations guidance more faithful and secure. 
Wherein if I have made any progress, the way has been 
opened to roe by no other means than the true and legitimate 
humiliation of the human spirit. For all those who before me 
have applied themselves to the invention of arts have but 
cast a glance or two upon facts and examples and experience, 
and straightway proceeded, as if invention were nothing 
more than an exercise of thought, to invoke their own spirits 
to give them oracles. I, on the contrary, dwelling purely 
and constantly among the facts of nature, withdraw ray 
intellect from them no furtlier than may suffice to let the 
images and rays of natural objects meet in a point, as they 
do in the sense of vision; whence it follows that the strength 
and excellency of the wit has but little to do in the matter. 
And the same humility which I use in inventing I employ 
likewise in teaching. For I do not endeavour either by 
triumphs of confutation, or pleadings of antiquity, or as- 
isdon of authority, or even by the veil of obscurity, to 



I 



IM FBAN'CIS BACON 

nrrest these inventions of mine with any majesty; whidi 
might easily be done by one who sought to give lustre to hii 
own name rather than hght to other men's minds. I bavflt 
not sought (I say) nor do 1 seek eilher to force or ensnai 
men's judgments, but I lead them to things themselves ar 
the concordances of tilings, that they may see for themsclvei 
what they have, what they can dispute, what they can add 
and contribute to the common stock. And for myself, if ia> 
anything I have been eilher too credulous or too little awal 
and attentive, or if I have fallen off by the way and left 
the inquiry incomplete, nevertJieless I so present these thingt 
naked and open, that my errors can be marked and set asidf 
before the mass of knowledge be further infected by thetn; 
and it will be easy also for others to continue and carry os 
my labours. And by these means I suppose that I havi 
cBtablished for ever a true and lawful marriage betwewi ' 
empirical and tlie rational faculty, the unkind and 
■tarred divorce and separation of which has thrown into 
fusion all the afFairs of the human family. 

Wherefore, seeing that these things do not dqjcnd upon 
myself, at the outset of the work I most humbly and fer- 
vently pray to God the Father, God the Son, and God the 
Holy Ghost, that remembering the sorrows of mankind and 
the pilgrimage of this our life wherein we wear out days 
few and evil, they will vouchsafe through my hands to endow 
the human family with new mercies. This likewise I humbly 
pray, that things human may not interfere with things divine, 
and that from the opening of the ways of sense and the 
increase of natural light there may arise in our minds no 
increduhty or darkness with regard to the divine mysteries; 
but rather that the understanding being thereby purified 
and purged of fancies and vanity, and yet not the less sub- 
ject and entirely submissive to the divine oracles, may give 
to faith that which is faith's. Lastly, that knowledge being 
now discharged of that venom which the serpent infused 
into it, and which makes the mind of man to swell, we may 
not be wise above measure and sobriety, but cultivate truth 
in charity. 

And now having said my prayers I turn to men ; to whom 
I have certain salutarj- admonitions to offer and certain 



INSTAURATIO MAGNA 135 

liit requests to make. My first admonition (which was also 
my prayer) is that men confine the sense within the limits 
of daty in respect to things divine : for the sense is like the 
sun. which reveals the face of earth, hut seals and shuts 
up the face of heaven. My next, that in flying from this evil 
they fall not into the opposite error, which they will surely 
Ai if they think that the inquisition of nature is in any pari 
interdicted or forbidden. For it was not that pure and un- 
corrupted natural knowledge whereby Adam gave names to 
"■c creatures according to their propriety, which gave occasion 
to the fall. It was the ambitious and proud desire of moral 
"Qwledgc to judge of good and evil, to the end that man may 
'cvoli from God and give laws to himself, which was the 
'ortn and manner of the temptation. Whereas of the sciences 
*''ich regard nature, the divine philosopher declares 'hat 
*t is the glory of God to conceal a thing, but it is the glory 
"f the King to find a thing out." Even as though the divine 
"^tiire took pleasure in the innocent and kindly sport of 
^^ildren playing at hide and seek, and vouchsafed of his 
****dneEs and goodness to admit the human spirit for his play- 
*^llow at that game. Lastly, I would address one general ad- 
monition to all ; that they consider what are the true ends of 
**J<3wiedge, and that they seek it not cither for pleasure of the 
^*«id, or for contention, or for superiority to others, or for 
^•■^fit, or fame, or power, or any of these inferior things; bnt 
**^T the benefit and use of life : and that they perfect and gov- 
^*^ it in charity. For it was from lust of power that the 
^*5gels fell, from lust of knowledge that man fell; but of 
^Harity there can be no excess, neither did angel or man ever 
^Ome in danger by it. 

The requests I have to make are these. Of myself I say 
'Nothing; but in behalf of the business which is in hand I 
Entreat men to believe that it is not an opinion to be held, 
tut a work to be done; and to be well assured that I am 
•abouring to lay the foundation, not of any sect or doctrine, 
but of human utility and power. Next, I ask f'lera to deal 
fairly by their own interests, and laying aside all emulations 
and prejudices in favour of this or that opinion, to join in 
consultation for the common good; and being now freed 
and guarded by the securities and helps which I offer from 



136 FRANCIS BAOOir 

the errors and impedimciits of the wmy, to 

fhemselTCS and take part in that which remains to be done. 
Moreover, to be of good hope, nor to imagine •*— t dni 
Instauration of mine is a thing infinite and beyond iM 
power of man, when it is in fact the true end and tcni- 
nation of infinite error; and seeing also that it Is bjr as 
means forgetfnl of the conditions of mortality and t mt u uuhj 
(for it does not suppose that the work can be alto- 
gether completed within one generation, bnt proii d cs for ii 
being taken np by another) ; and finally that it acds for tk 
sciences not arrogantly in the little cells of bnman wit, kt 
with reverence in the greater world. But it is the cnp^ 
things that are vast: things solid are most wwifra c lfd arf 
lie in little room. And now I have only one fxnm. 
more to ask (else injustice to me may perhaps in^cifl Ae 
business itself) — that men will consider well how for, npos 
that which I must needs assert (if I am to be 
with myself), they are entitled to judge and d 
these doctrines of mine; inasmuch as all ihat 
human reasoning which anticipates inquiry, and Is 
from the facts rashly and sooner than is fit, is by 
jected (so far as the inquisition of nature is oonc 
as a thing uncertain, confused, and iH built np; and I 
not be fairly asked to abide Iff the decision of a " 
which is itself on its trial 




THE PLAN OF THE INSTAURATIO MAGNA 
The work is io six Parts; — 

i- The Divisions of the Sciences. 

3- The New Organon; or Directions concemtHg the 

Interpretation of Nature. 

3- The Phenomena of the Universe; or a Natural and 

Experimental History for the foundation of 
Philosophy. 

4- The Ladder of the Intellect. 

5- The Forerunners; or Anticipations of the New 
Philosophy. 

The New Philosophy; or Active Science, 



The Arguments of the several Parts. 

-f It being part of my design to set everytiiing forth, as 
^^-^ as may be, plainly and perspicuously (for nakedness of 
^^^ mind is still, as nakedness of the body once was, the 
j^^'mpanion of innocence and simplicity), let me first ex- 
_^^Sin the order and plan of the work. I distribute it into 
*:s( parts. 

The first part exhibits a summary or general description 

^^ r the knowledge which the human race at present pos- 

^sses. For I thought it good to make some pause upon that 

^'^'■hich is received; that thereby the old may be more easily 

?*iade perfect and the new more easily approached. And I 

*~»oId the improvement of that which we have to be as much an 

'^tject as the acquisition of more. Besides which it will 

**iake me the better listened to; for "He that is ignorant 

<[says the proverb) receives not the words of knowledge, 

lanless thou first tell him that which is in his own heart" 

We will therefore make a coasting voyage along the shores 

of the arts and sciences received; not without importing 

into them some useful things by the way. 

1^ 



'tX FRANCIS BACON 

In laying out the divisions of ihe sciences however, I 
take into account not only things already invented and 
known, but likewise things omitted which ought to be 
there. For there are found in the intellectual as in the 
terrestial globe waste regions as well as cultivated ones, 
It is no wonder therefore if I am sometimes obliged to 
depart from the ordinary divisions. For in adding to the 
total you necessarily alter the parts and sections; and the 
received divisions of the sciences are fitted only to the 
received sum of them as it stands now. 

With regard to those things which I shall mark down 
as omitted, I intend not merely to set down a simple title 
or a concise argument of that which is wanted. For as 
often as I have occasion to report anything as deficient, the 
nature of which is at all obscure, so that men may not 
perhaps easily understand what I mean or what the work 
is which I have in my head, I shall always (provided it be 
a matter of any worth) take care to subjoin either direc- 
tions for the execution of such work, or else a portion of the 
work itself executed by myself as a sample of the whole : thus 
giving assistance in every case either by work or by coun- 
sel. For if it were for the sake of my reputation only 
uid other men's interests were not concerned in it, I would 
not have any man think that in such cases merely some 
light and vague notion has crossed my mind, and that the 
things which I desire and offer at are no better than wishes; 
when they are in fact things which men may certainly com- 
mand if they will, and of which I have formed in my own 
mind a clear and detailed conception. For I do not pro- 
pose merely to survey these regions in my mind, like an augur 
taking auspices, but to enter them like a general who means 
to take possession. — So much for the first part of the work. 

Having thus coasted past the ancient arts, the next pomt. 
is to equip the intellect for passing beyond. To the second, 
part therefore belongs the doctrine concerning the betted' 
and more perfect use of human reason in the inquisition of. 
things, and the true helps of the understanding: that thereby, 
(as far as the condition of mortality and humanity allows) 
the intellect may be raised and exalted, and made capable 





of overcoming the difficulties and obscurities of nature. 
The art which I introduce with this view (which I call 
Interpretation of Nature) is a kind of logic; though the 
difference between it and the ordinary logic is great; in- 
deed immense. For the ordinary logic professes to contrive 
and prepare helps and guards for the imder standing, as 
mine docs ; and in this one point they agree. But mine differs 
from it in three points especially; viz. in the end aimed at; 
in the order of demonstration; and in the starting point 
of the inquiry. 

For the end which this science of mine proposes is the in- 
vention not of arguments but of arts; not of things in ac- 
cordance with principles, but of principles themselves; not 
of probable reasons, but of designations and directions for 
works. And as the intention is different, so accordingly is 
the effect; the effect of the one being to overcome an oppo- 
nent in argument, of the other to command nature in action. 

In accordance with this end is also the nature and order 
of the demonstrations. For in the ordinary logic almost all 
the work is spent about the syllogism. Of induction the 
logicians seem hardly to have taken any serious thought, but 
they pass it by with a slight notice, and hasten on to the 
formulie of disputation. I on the contrary reject demonstra- 
tion by syllogism, as acting too confusedly, and letting nature 
slip out of its hands. For although no one can doubt that 
things which agree in a middle term agree with one another 
(which is a proposition of mathematical certainty), yet it 
leaves an opening for deception ; which is this. The syllogism 
consists of propositions; propositions of words; and words 
are the tokens and .signs of notions. Now if the very notions 
of the mind (which are as the soul of words and the basis 
of the whole structure) be improperly and over-hastiiy ab- 
stracted from facts, vague, not sufficiently definite, faulty 
in short in many ways, the whole edifice tumbles, I there- 
fore reject the syllogism; and that not only as regards 
principles (for to principles the logicians themselves do not 
apply it) hut also as regards middle propositions; which, 
though obtainable no doubt by the syllogism, are, when so 
obtained, barren of works, remote from practice, and alto. 
^etbi^ onavailable for the active department of the sciences. 



^^^ bow«1s c 



TILKSCIS BACON 

Ahhoagti fl i cwfo rc I Icarc to tbe syllogism and diese &■ 
mom and boasted owdcs of doBOnstration their jurisdictioc 
orcr fOfnbi arts and sncb as an mauer of opinion (ic 
which dqnnatcBi I leare aQ as h is), yet in dealing witb 
tht nature of tfainss I aae iwdncti on throtigfaout, and thai 
in &e auiior proposidoos as wefl as tiie major. For 1 
eoackler indncdon to be Oat fonn of danonstration which 
upboMs Ihe atvst, aod closes with aatare. and comes to the 
TUy brink of operatkxi, if it does not actaally deal with it 

Hence it follows thai the order of demonstration is like- 
wise inrerted. For hitherto tbe proceeding has been to fly 
at once from tbe sense and particalan up to the moat gen- 
eral propositions, as certain fixed poles for tbe argmnent to 
turn upon, and from these to derirc the rest hy middle terms : 
a short way, no doubt, bat precipiuie ; and one which wilt 
never lead to mturc, thot^ h offers an easy and ready 
w^ lo dispoUtion. Now my plan is to proceed r^^laily 
and gradually from one a»oni to anodicr, so that dtc most 
general arc not reached tiD the last: hut then when yoa 
do come to them you find them to be not empty notions, 
bat well defined, and sncb as nature would really recognise 
as her first principles, and sncb as lie at the heart and mar- 
row of thii^gs. 

Bttt the greatest change I intr odoce is in the form itsdf 
of inductioo and the judgment made thereby. For the m- 
ductioD of which the logicians speak, which proceeds fajr 
simple enumeration, is a paerile thing; coodndes at hazard; 
is always liable to be opset by a contradictory instance;' 
takes into account only what is known and ordinaiy; 
leads to no result 

Now what the sciences stand in need of b a form of in-' 
dnction which shall analyse experience and take it to piecc%| 
and by a due process of exclusion and rejectian lead to an ' 
eritabic conclusion. And if that ordinary mode of Ji 
ment practised by the logicians was so laborions, and fm 
exercise for such great wits, how mncfa more laboor most 
be prepared to bestow upon this other, which is extracted 
merely out of the depths of the mind, bat out of tbe vttj 
bowels of nature. 

Kor is this aU. For I also sink tb« foundations of A* 



INSTAUTIATIO MAGNA 

sciences deeper and firmer; and I begin the inquiry nearer 

the source than men have done heretofore; submitting to 
examination those things which the common logic takes on 
trust. For first, the logicians borrow the priuciples of each 
science from the science itself; secondly, they hold in rever- 
ence the first notions of the mind; and lastly, they receive 
as conclusive the immediate informations of the sense, when 
well disposed. Now upon the first point, I hold that true logic 
ought to enter the several provinces of science armed with a 
higher authority than belongs to the principles of those 
sciences themselves, and ought to call those putative prin- 
ciples to account until they are fully established. Then 
with regard to the first notions of the intellect; there is 
not one of the impressions taken by the intellect when left 
to go its own way, but I hold it for suspected, and no way 
established, until it has submitted to a new trial and a fresh 
judgment has been thereupon pronounced. And lastly, the 
information of the sense itself I sift and examine in many 
ways. For certain it is that the senses deceive; but then 
at the same time they supply the means of discovering their 
own errors ; only the errors are here, the means of discovery 
are to seek. 

The sense fails in two ways. Sometimes it gives no in- 
formation, sometimes it gives false information. For first, 
there are very many things which escape the sense, even 
when best disposed and no way obstructed; by reason either 
of the subtlety of the whole body, or the minuteness of the 
parts, or distance of place, or slowness or else swiftness of 
motion, or familiarity of the object, or other causes. And 
again when the sense does apprehend a thing its appre- 
hension is not much to be relied upon. For the testimony 
and information of the sense has reference always to man, 
not to the universe; and it is a great error to assert that 
the sense is the measure of things. 

To meet these difficulties, T have sought on all sides dili- 
gently and faithfully to provide helps for the sense — substi- 
tutes to supply its failures, rectifications to correct its er- 
rors; and this I endeavour to accomplish not so much by 
instruments as by experiments. For the subtlety of experi- 
.auatfi is far greater than that of the sense itself, even when 



Bd FRANCIS BACOM 

assisted by exquisite instruments ; such experiments, I mean^i 
as are skilfully and artificially devised for the express pur- 
pose of determining the point in question. To the immediate 
and proper perception of the sense therefore I do not give 
much weight; but I contrive that the office of the sense 
shall be only to judge of the experiment, and that the experi- 
ment itself shall judge of the thing. And thus I conceive that 
I perform the office of a true priest of the sense (from wbicb 
atl knowledge in nature must be sought, unless men mean to 
go mad) and a not unskilful interpreter of its oracles; 
and that while others only profess to uphold amj cultivate 
the sense, I do so in fact. Such then are the provisions I 
make for finding the genuine light of nature and kindling 
and bringing it to bear. And they would be sufficient of 
themselves, if the human intellect were even, and like 
a fair sheet of paper with no writing on it. But since the 
minds of men are strangely possessed and beset, so that 
there is no true and even surface left to reflect the genuine 

. Wys of things, it is necessary to seek a remedy for this 

[ also. 

' Now the idols, or phantoms, by which the mind is oc- 
cupied are either adventitious or innate. The adventitious 
come into the mind from without; namely, either from the 
doctrines and sects of philosophers, or from perverse rules 
of demonstration. But the innate are inherent in the very 
nature of the intellect, which is far more prone to error 
than the sense is. For let men please themselves as th<y 
will in admiring and almost adoring the human mind, this 
is certain: that as an uneven mirror distorts the rays of 
objects according to its own figure and section, so the mind, 
when it receives impressions of objects through the sense, 
cannot be trusted to report them truly, but in forming its 
notions mises up its own nature with the nature of thing."!. 

And as the first two kinds of iflols are hard to eradicate, 
so idols of this last l(ind cannot be eradicated at all. All that 
can be done is to point them out, so that this insidious action 
of the mind may be marked and reproved (else as fast as 
old errors are destroyed new ones will spring up out of the 
ill complexion of the mind itself, and so we shall have but 
a change or errors, and not a clearance) ; and to lay it 



down once far alt as a fixed and established maxim, that 
the intellect is not qualified to judge except by means ol 
induction, and induction in its legitimate form. This doc- 
Irfne then of the expurgation of the intellect to qualify it 
for dealing with truth, is comprised in three refutations : 
the refutation of the Philosophies; the refutation of the 
D^fnonstrationa ; and the refutation of the Natural Human 
Reason. The explanation of which things, and of the trus 
r^Qtign between the nature of things and the nature of the 
gitpd, is as the strewing and decoration of the bridal chamber 
of the Mind and the Universe, the Divine Goodness pst 
sisting; out of which marriage let us hope (and be this 
the prayer of the bridal song') there may spring helps to 
man, and a line and race of inventions that may in &ov(W 
degree subdue and overcome the necessities and miseries gf 
humanity. This is the second part of the work. 

But I design not only to indicate and mark out the ways, 
but also to enter them. And therefore the third part of the 
work embraces the Phenomena of the Universe; that is to 
say, experience of every kind, and such a natural his- 
tory as may serve for a foundation to build philosophy 
upon. For a good method of demonstration or form of 
interpreting nature may keep the mind from going astray 
or stumbling, but it is not any excellence of method thai 
can supply it witli the material of knowledge. Those how-^ 
ever who aspire not to guess and divine, but to discover 
and know; who propose not to devise mimic and fabulans 
worlds of their own. but to examine and dissect the nature 
of this very world itself; must go to facts themselves for 
everything. Nor can the place of this labour and search 
^fld worldwide perambulation bo supplied by any genius 
qr meditation or argumentation; no, not if all men's wits 
could meet in one. This therefore we must have, or the 
business must be for ever abandoned. But up to this day 
such has been the condition of men in this matter, that 
it is no wonder if nature will not give herself into their 

For first, the information of the sense itself, sometimes 
failing, sometimes false; observation, careless, irregular, an4 



PR&KCIS BAC»H 

led by chance; tradition, vain and fed cm rumour; praetiK 
slavishly bent upon its work; experiment, blind, stupid, 
vague, and prematurely broken off; lastly, natural history, 
trivial and poor; — all these have contributed to supply the 
understanding with very bad materials for philosophy and 
the sciences. 

Then an attempt is made to mend the matter by a pre- 
posterous subtlety and winnowing of argument. Bat this 
comes too late, the case being already past remedy ; and is 
far from setting the business right or sifting away the 
errors. The only hope therefore of any greater increase or 
progress lies in a reconstruction of the sciences. 

Of this reconstruction the foundation must be laid it 
natural history, and that of a new kind and gathered on a new 
principle. For it is in vain that you polish the mirror if 
there are no images to be reflected ; and it is as necessary that 
the intellect should be supplied with fit matter to work upon, 
as with safeguards to guide its working. But my history 
differs from that in use (as my logic does) in many things, 
in end and office, in mass and composition, in subtlety, in 
selection also and setting forth, with a view to the operationi 
which are to follow. 

For first, the object of a natural history which I propose 
is not so much to delight with variety of matter or to help 
with present use of experiments, as to give light to the dis- 
covery of causes and supply a suckling philosophy with its 
first food. For though it he true that I am principally in pur- 
suit of works and the active department of the sciences, yet I 
wait for harvest-time, and do not attempt to mow tl 
or to reap the green corn. For I well know that 
once rightly discovered will carry whole troops of works 
along with them, and produce them, not here and there one,, 
but in clusters. And that unseasonable and puerile hurry 
to snatch hy way of earnest at the first works which come 
within reach, I utterly condemn and reject, as an Atalanta'* 
apple that hinders the race. Such then is tlie office of tbift 
natural history of mine. 

Next, with regard to the mass and composition of it; 
mean it to be a history not only of nature free and at large 
(when she is left to her own course and does her work her 




own way)-^uch as that of the heavenly bodies, meteors, 
urth and sea, minerals, plants, animals, — but much more of 
nature under constraint and vexed ; that is to say, whan by 
ari and the hand of man she is forced out of her natural 
Slate, and squeezed and moulded. Therefore I set down at 
'ength all experiments of the mechanical arts, of the oper- 
ative part of the liberal arts, of the many crafts which have 
''ot yet grown into arts properly so called, so far as I have 
''5*1 able to examine them and as they conduce to the end in 
"iew. Nay (to say the plain truth) I do in fact (low and 
Vulgar as men may think it) count more upon this part both 
'Of helps and safeguards than upon the other; seeing that the 
'^^ture of things betrays itself more readily under the vexa- 
^^na of art than in its natural freedom. 

^or do I confine the history to Bodies ; but I have 
^ought it my duty besides to make a separate history 
^^ such Virtues as may be considered cardinal in nature. I 
^«an those original passions or desires of matter which 
*^^wstitute the primary elements of nature; such as Dense 
***d Rare, Hot and Cold, Solid and Fluid, Heavy and Light, 
^*ld several others. 

Then again, to speak of subtlety: I seek out and get to- 
S^ther a kind of experiments much subtler and simpler than 
Pilose which occur accidentally. For I drag into light ma.iy 
tilings which no one who was not proceeding by a regular 
^nd certain way to the discovery of causes would have 
thought of inquiring after; being indeed in themselves of no 
Rreat use; which shows that they were not sought for on 
their own account; but having just the same relation to 
tilings and works which the letters of the alphabet have to 
Speech and words— which, though in themselves useless, are 
the elements of which all discourse is made up. 

Further, in the selection of the relation and experiments 
I conceive I have been a more cautious purveyor than those 
\fftio have hitherto dealt with natiiral history. For I admit 
nothing but on the faith of eyes, or at least of careful and 
severe examination; so that nothing is exaggerated for 
wonder's sake, but what I state is sound and without mixture 
of fables or vanity. All received or current falsehoods also 
(which by strange negligence have been allowed for many 




I 



n a dear account of &t 
;n knowing exactly how 
i whether there be anj 



VRANCIS BAOOlf 

tgea to prevail and become established) I proscribe ani 
brand by name; that the sciences may be no more troubled 
with them. For it has been well observed that the fables 
and superstitions and follies which nurses instil into chil- 
dren do serious injury to their minds; and the same con- 
sideration makes me anxious, having the management ol 
the childhood as it were of philosophy in its course of 
natural history, not to let it accustom itself in the beginning 
to any vanity. Moreover, whenever I come to a new experi- 
ment of any subtlety (though it be in my own opinion certain 
and approved), I nevertheless subjoi 
manner in which I made it; that mi 
each point was made out, may set 

error connected with it, and raay arouse themselves to devise 
proofs more trustworthy and exquisite, if such 
found ; snd finally, I interpose everywhere admonitions and 
scruples and cautions, with a religious care to eject, repress, 
find as it were exorcise every kind of phantasm. 

Lastly, knowing how much the si^t of man's mind is dis- 
tracted by experience and history, and how hard it is at the 
first (especially for minds either tender or preoccupied) to 
become familiar with nature, I not un frequently subjoin 
observations of my own, being as the first offers, indiiu> 
lions, and as it were glances of history towards philosophy; 
both by way of an assurance to men that they will be kept 
for ever tossing on the waves of experience, and also that 
when the time comes for the intellect to begin its work, it 
may find everything the more ready. By such a Qaturall 
history then as I have described, I conceive that a safe a 
convenient approach may be made to nature, and mattef 
r supplied of good quality and well prepared for the undo'* 
standing to work upoiL 

And now that we have surrounded the intellect with faidi-> 
ful helps and guards, and got together with most carefid' 
selection a regular army of divine works, it may seem that 
we have no more to do but to proceed to philosophy itself 
And yet in a matter so difficult and doubtful ther 
some things which it seems necessary to premise, part^ 
ior convenience of explanation, partly for present use. 



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r^-T: 



FRANCIS BAOOK 

in a certain eaarsc tad mj : acd yet establisbea pforidon- 
aJI; ecTtaia Atgnts of aMuraace, for use and relief until 
dte BoaA shall arrive at a knowkdse of causes in which it 
can rest. For ctcii those schools of philosophy which hdd 
the absohite irapossibilitr of knowing anything were not 
inferior to those which took apoo them to proDonsce. 
But then they did not provide helps for the sense and tmdcf- 
standlng, as I have done, bat simply toolc away all tfadr 
anthoriij: which is quite a different tfain^— almost the 



The sixth part of nqr work (to which tbe rest is sA- 
serrient and ministrant) discloses and sets forth that philos- 
ophy which by the legilimate, chaste, and severe course of 
inquiry which i have explained and provided is at leng^ 
developed and established. The completion however of diis 
last part is a thing both above my strength and beyond my 
hopes. I have made a beginning of the work — a beginning, 
as I hope, not unimportant: — the fortune of the human nee 
will give the issue : — such an issue, it may be, as in the pres- 
ent condition of things and men's minds cannot easily be 
conceived or imagined. For the matter in hand is no mere 
felicity of speculation, but the real business and fortunes of 
the human race, and all power of operation. For man is 
but the servant and interpreter of nature: what he does 
and what he knows is only what he has observed of nature's 
order in fact or in thought; beyond this he knows nothing 
and can do nothing. For the chain of causes cannot by any 
force be loosed or broken, nor can nature be commanded 
except by being obeyed. And so those twin objects, human 
Knowledge and human Power, do really meet in one; and it 
is from ignorance of causes that operation fails. 

And all depends on keeping the eye steadily fixed upon the 
facts of nature and so receiving their images simply as they 
are. For God forbid that we should give out a dream of 
our own imagination for a pattern of the world; rather may 
he graciously grant to us to write an apocalypse or true 
vi'iion of the footsteps of the Creator imprinted on bia 



INSTAURATIO MAGNA 



I4B 



as the Erst fruits of creation, and didst breathe into the face 
of man the intellectual light as the crown and consummation 
thereof, guard and protect this work, which coming from 
thy goodness returneth to thy glory. Thou when thou 
tarnedst to look upon the works which thy hands had made, 
saweat that all was very good, and didst rest from thy labours. 
But man, when he turned to look upon the work which his 
hands had made, saw that all was vanity and vexation of 
spiti^ and could find no rest therein. Wherefore if we 
labour in thy works with the sweat of our brows thou wilt 
make us partakers of thy vision and thy sabbath. Humbly 
we pray that this mind may be steadfast in us, and that 
ttirough these our hands, and the hands of others to whom 
thou shalt give the same spirit, thou wilt vouchsafe to endow 
_ttK-liutQaii family with new n 




PREFACE 
TO THE NOVUM ORGANUM 

THOSE who have taken upon them to lay down the 
]aw of nature as a thing already searched out and 
understood, whether they have spoken in simple 
surance or professional affectation, have therein done phi- 
losophy and the sciences great injury. For as they have 
been successful in inducing belief, so they have been effective 
in quenching and stopping inquiry; and have done i 
harm by spoiling and putting an end to other men's efforts 
than good by their own. Those on the other hand who have 
taken a contrary course, and asserted that absolutely nothing 
can be known, — whether it were from hatred of the ai 
sophists, or from uncertainty and fluctuation of mind, oi 
from a kind of fulness of learning, that they fell upon tlus 
opinion, — have certainly advanced reasons for it that arc not 
to be despised; but yet they have neither started from true 
principles nor rested in the just conclusion, zeal and affecta- 
tion having carried them much too far. The more ancient 
of the Greeks (whose writings arc lost) took up with bettet 
judgment a position between these two extremes, — betweot 
the presumption of pronouncing on everything, and At: 
despair of comprehending anythine: and though frequenflr 
and bitterly complaining of the difficulty of inquiry and the 
obscurity of things, and like impatient horses champing ti 
bit, they did not the less follow up their object and enga^. 
with Nature; thinking (it seems) that this very question,— 
viz. whether or no anything can be kno«Ti. — was to be 
settled not by arguing, but by tr>'ing. And yet they too, 
trusting entirely to the force of their understanding, applied 
no rule, but made everything turn upon hard thinking' a 
perpetual working and exercise of the mind. 

Now my method, though hard to practise, is easy to e» 
I plain; and it is this. I propose to establish progresdn 
150 



NOVUM ORGANUM 



JtagcB of certainty. The evidence of the sense, helped and 
guarded by a certahi process of correction, I retain. But 
the mental operation which follows the act of sense I for 
the most part reject; and instead of it 1 open and lay out a 
new and certain path for the mind to proceed in, starting 
directly from the simple sensuous perception. The necessity 
of this was felt no doubt by those who attributed so much 
importance to Logic; showing thereby that they were in 
search of helps for the understanding, and had no confidence 
in the native and spontaneous process of the mind. But 
this remedy comes too late to do any good, when the mind 
is already, through the daily intercourse and conversation 
of life, occupied with unsound doctrines and beset on all 
aides by vain imaginations. And therefore that art of 
Logic, coming (as I said) too late to the rescue, and no way 
able to set matters right again, has had the effect of fixing 
errors rather than disclosing truth. There remains but one 
course for the recovery of a sound and healthy condition, — 
namely, that the entire work of the understanding be com- 
menced afresh, and the mind itself be from the very outset 
not left to take its own course, but guided at every step ; and 
the business be done as if by machinery, Certainly if in 
things mechanical men had set to work with their naked 
hands, without help or force of instruments, just as in 
things intellectual they have set to work with little else than 
the naked forces of the understanding, very small would the 
matters have been which, even with their best efforts applied 
in conjunction, they could have attempted or accomplished. 
Now (to pause while upon this example and look in it as 
in a glass) let us suppose that some vast obelisk were (for 
the decoration of a triumph or some such magnificence) to 
be removed from its place, and that men should set to work 
upon it with their naked hands; would not any sober spec- 
tator think them mad? And if they should then send for 
more people, thinking that in that way they might manage 
it, would he not think them all the madder? And if they 
then proceeded to make a selection, putting away the weaker 
liands, and using only the strong and vigorous, would he not 
think them madder than ever? And if lastly, not content 
with this, they resolved to call in aid the art of athletics. 



m 

ind ■ 

But 



FRANCIS BACON 

and required all their men to come with hands, arms, sndl 
sinews well anointed and medicated according to the rules f 
of art, would he not cry out that they were only taking I 
pains to show a kind of method and discretion in their mad- f 
ness? Yet just so il is that men proceed in matters i 
tellectual, — with just the same kind of mad effort and use- 
less combination of forces, — when they hope great thing« 
either from the number and cooperation or from the ex- 
cellency and acuteness of individual wits; yea, and when 
they endeavour by Logic (which may be considered as a 
kind of athletic art) to strengthen the sinews of the tinder- 
standing; and yet with all this study and endeavour it i 
apparent to any true judgment that they are but applyin 
the naked intellect all the lime; whereas in every great work 
to be done by the hand of man it is manifestly impossible, 
without instruments or machinery, either for the strength 
of each to be exerted or the strength of all to be united. 

Upon these premises two things occur to me of which, 
that they may not be overlooked, I would have men reminded- 
First it falls out fortunately as I think for the allaying of 
contradictions and heart-burnings, that the honour and 
reverence due to the ancients remains untouched and un- 
diminished; while I may carry out my designs and at the 
same time reap the fruit of my modesty. For if I should 
profess that I. going the same road as the ancients, havl 
something better to produce, there must needs have been 
some comparison or rivalry between us (not to be avoided 
by any art of words) in respect of excellency or ability o 
wit; and though in this there would be nothing unlawful or' 
new (for if there be anything misapprehended by them, o 
falsely laid down, why may not I, using a liberty commoa 
to all, take exception to it?) yet the contest, however just' 
and allowable, would have been an unequal one perhaps, la 
respect of the measure of my own powers. As it is how- 
ever, — my object being to open a new way for the under- 
standing, a way by them untried and unknown, — the ca 
altered; party zeal and emulation are at an end; and I ap- 
pear merely as a guide to point out the road; an office of 
small authority, and depending more upon a kind of luck 
than upon any ability or excellency. And thus much relates 



NOVUM ORGANtJM 153 

to the persons only. The other point of which I would have 
men reminded relates to the matter itself. 

Be it remembered then that I am far from wishing to 
interfere with the philosophy which now flourishes, or with 
any other philosophy more correct and complete than this 
which has been or may hereafter be propounded. For I 
do not object to the use of this received philosophy, or others 
like it, for supplying matter for disputations or omamenta 
for discourse, — for the professor's lecture and for the busi- 
ness of Hfe. Nay more, I declare openly that for these 
uses the philosophy which I bring forward will not be much 
available. It does not lie in the way. It cannot be caught 
tip in passage. It does not flatter the understanding by con- 
formity with preconceived notions. Nor will it come down 
to the apprehension of the vulgar except by its utility and 
effects. 

I-et there be therefore (and may it be for the benefit of 
both) two streams and two dispensations of knowledge; and 
in like manner two tribes or kindreds of students in philoso- 
phy — tribes not hostile or alien to each other, but bound 
together by mutual services; — let there in short be one 
niethod for the cultivation, another for the invention, of 
knowledge. 

And for those who prefer the former, either from hurry 
or from considerations of business or for want of mental 
power to take in and embrace the other (which must needs 
l>e most men's case), I wish that they may succeed to their 
desire in what they are about, and obtain what they are 
pursuing. But if any man there be who. not content to rest 
in and use the knowledge which has already been discovered, 
^spires to penetrate further; to overcome, not an adversary 
•n argument, but nature in action; to seek, not pretty and 
probable conjectures, but certain and demonstrable knowl- 
'^S^; — I invite all such to join themselves, as true sons of 
""owledge, with me, that passing by the outer courts of 
"ature^ which numbers have trodden, we may find a way 
^' length into her inner chambers. And to make my meaning 
f'^arer and to familiarise the thing by giving it a name, I 
•■^^e chosen to call one of these methods or ways Anticipation 
"' the Mind, the other Interpretation of Nature, 



rRANCTS BAOON 

Moreover I have one request to make. I have on nvs 
own part made it my care and study that the things wliicH 1 
sbalE propound should not only be true, but should slso t>e 
presented to men's minds, how strangely soever preoccupied 
and obstructed, in a manner not harsh or unpleasant. It i> 
but reasonable however (especially in so great a restoratio* I 
of learning and knowledge) that I should claim of men <z>0* I 
favour in return; which is this; If any one would form ** I 
Opinion or judgment either out of his own observation, oSi 
out of the crowd of authorities, or out of the forms of de^i^jj 
onstration (which have now acquired a sanction like that *»J 
judicial laws), concerning these speculations of mine, »" 
him not hope that he can do it in passage or by the by ; "M^^' 
let him examine the thing thoroughly; let him make s» :*nt 
little trial for himself of the way which I describe and ^ay 
out; let him familiarise his thoughts with that subtlety *^' 

nature to which experience bears witness ; let him correct "J 
seasonable patience and due delay the depraved and de ^ r=~ t'' 
rooted habits of his mind ; and wiien all this is done and *** 
bas begun to be his own master, let him (if he will) M-i^i-Sfl 
his own judgment. 



PREFACE TO THE 

FIRST FOLIO EDITION 
OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS 

H (16^3) 



^^H To THE Great Variety of Readers 

y "^ROM the most able, to him that can but spell: There 
■^ you are miniber'd. We had rather you were weighd. 
'•^~ Especially, when the fate of all Boofces depends vpon 
Tout capacities : and not of your heads alone, but of your 
MiTses, Well ! it is now publiqiie, & you wil stand for your 
►riuiledges wee know : to read, and censure. Do so, but buy 
* first. That doth best commend a Booke, the Stationer 
sies. Then, how odde soeuer your braines be, or your wise- 
lomes, make your licence the same, and spare not. ludge 
'our sixe-pen'orth, your shillings worth, your fiue shillings 
^OTth at a time, or higher, so you rise to the iust rates, and 
'elcome. But, what euer you do, Buy. Censure will not 
■fine a Trade, or make the lacke go. And though you be a 
fta-gistrate of wit, and sit on the Stage at Black-Friers, or 
f»^ Cock-pit, to arraigne Playes dailie, know, these Playes 
laue had their triall alreadie, and stood out al! Appeals; and 
c> now come forth quitted rather by a Decree of Court, then 
•*»y purchas'd Letters of commendation. 

Xt had bene a thing, we confesse, worthie to haue bene 

„,XJttIe more than halt of Shakespearp's playa were published during hii 
l*»e«lMi and in the puhlicalion ot these there is no evidence that the 
t"«lH)r had any hand. S-ven years after iiis -li-'th. Inhn H™inte and 
HerWT Cnndell, two ot his fellow-aclorB, cllec 
Bnd. m iSj3, isjued them along with the otb-rs 
kni>»B OB the Ffr^l FalJo. Whrn one conaidi 
«a«t had it not been for [Be enterprise of these 



■d the unpublished plays, 
n a single volume, usually 
s what would have been 



ISB HEBfTNO&CONBELL 

wished, that the Author hinisclfc had liu'd to haue set fort**, 
and ouerseen his owre writings; But since it hath bLn 
ordain'd otherwise, and he by death departed from (bsk.i 
right, we pray you do not envie his Friends, the office of thei* 
care, and paine, to haue collecled & publish'd them ; and so 
to haue publish'd them, as where (before) you were abus'd 
with diuerse stolne. and surreptitious copies, maimed, and 
deformed by the frauds and steahhes of iniurious imposters, 
that expos'd them : euen those, are now offer'd to your vie'^w 
rur'd, and perfect of their limbes; and all the rest, absolut:* 
in their numbers, as he conceiued them. Who. as he wa"' 

a happie imitator of Nature, was a most gentle expresser ^ 

it. His mind and hand went together: And what he thougl* 
he vttered with that eastnesse. that wee haue scarse recei»<^ 
from him a blot in his papers. But it is not our prouino 
who onely gather his works, and giue them you, to prai* 
him. It is yours that reade him. And there we hope, ' 
your diuers capacities, you will finde enough, both to dra^ 
and hold you: for his wit can no more lie hid. then it col— 
he lost, Reade him, therefore; and againe, and againe: >" 
if then you doe not tike him, surely you are in some mani f * 
danger, not to vnderstand him. And so we leaue yot> 
other of his Friends, whom if you need, can bee your guici* 
if you neede them not, you can leade your selues, and oth< 
And such Readers wc wish him. 

loHN Heminge. 

HSNUG COKDEtX. 



» 10 

1 




PREFACE TO THE 

PHILOSOPHIAE NATURALIS 

PRINCIPIA MATHEMATICA 

BY SIR ISAAC NEWTON. (1686) 

SINCE the ancients (as we are told by Pappus) made 
great account of the science of mechanics in the in- 
vestigation of natural things ; and the moderns, laying 
aside substantial forms and occult qualities, have en- 
deavored to subject the phenomena of nature to the laws of 
mathematics, I have in this treatise cultivated mathematics 
so far as it regards philosophy. The ancients considered 
mechanics in a twofold respect; as rational, which proceeds 
accurately by demonstration, and practical. To practical 
mechanics all the manual arts belong, from which mechanics 
took its name. But as artificers do not work with perfect 
ac€:uracy, it comes to pass that mechanics is so distinguished 
from geometry, that what is perfectly accurate is called 
geometrical; what is less so is called mechanical. But the 
errors are not in the art, but in the artificers. He that works 
With less accuracy is an imperfect mechanic; and if any 
could work with perfect accuracy, he would be the most per- 
^ct mechanic of all; for the description of right lines and 
circles, upon which geometry is founded, belongs to me- 
chanics. Geometry does not teach us to draw these lines, but 
'"Squires them to be drawn; for it requires that the learner 
*"Outd first be taught to describe these accurately, before he 

tu^ir luac Newton, the giat English mathcmBtidin sod ebystciEt. mi 
S?'? at Wfwlslhorpe in i64J. and d«d St K=n8inr~ '" — "" '-'■' ' 
Prof ...-^ a, f^^Y^,,^. ._j ..._ „_.._ 



"of-ajomhip 
?»«BT of tie 
?^ J»r«ident 



„. - „.B UniTenity in PaMiami 

mini icfonnffd Ihe English eoinage, and for twenty-fivr 
of the Rdyal Society. H;i ihecry of ihe law of ut 
e most important of hiq mat\y discoveries, is e:iipoun 



'J' PbiloBophiae Naturairrpriodpia' Math"; 



FllaafU," from which this Preface is uiiislated. 

U2 



SIR ISAAC NEWTOW 

enters upon geometry; then it shows how by these operations 
problema may be solved. To describe right lines and circles 
are problems, but not geometrical problems. The solution 
of these problems is required from mechanics; and by ge- 
ometry the use of them, when so solved, is shown ; and it is 
the glory of geometry that from those few principles, 
fetched from without, it is able to produce so many things 
Therefore geometry is founded in mechanical practice, b 
is nothing but that part of universal mechanics which ac< 
curalely proposes and demonstrates the art o£ measuring. 
But since the manual arts are chiefly conversant in the mov- 
ing of bodies, it comes tO pass that geometry is commonly re- 
ferred to their magnitudes, and mechanics to their ntotion. 
In this sense rational mechanics wiil be the science of e 
tions resulting from any forces whatsoever, and of the forces 
required to produce any motions, accurately proposed and' 
demonstrated. This part of mechanics was cultivated by the 
ancients in the five powers which relate to manual arts, who 
considered gravity (it not being a manual power) no othei^ 
wise than as it moved weights by those powers. Our desigr^ 
not respecting arts, but philosophy, and oar subject, not man- 
ual, but natural powers, we consider chiefly those things 
which relate to gravity, levity, elastic force, the resistance 
of fluids, and the like forces, whether attractive or impulsivej 
and therefore we offer this work as mathematical prindplcf 
of philosophy; for ail the difficulty of philosophy seems t 
consist in this — from the phenomena of motions to investi- 
gate the forces of nature, and then from these forces to de» 
monstrate the other phenomena ; and to this end the general 
propositions in the first and second book are directed. In 
the third book we give an example of this in the explicatioi^ 
of the system of the World; for by the propositions n)&th»- 
matically demonstrated in the first book, we there derive 
from the celestial phenomena the forces of gravity with] 
which bodies tend to the sun and the several planets. Thei^ 
from these forces, by other propositions which are also ma " 
ematical, we deduce the motions of the planets, the com<._, 
the moon, and the sea, I wish we could derive the rest of the 
phenomena o£ nature by the same kind of reasoning from 
mechanical principles; for I am induced by many reasons 



TO THE PRINCIPIA ISg 

suspect that they may all depend upon certain forces by 
jwhich the particles of bodies, by some causes hitherto un- 
known, are either mutually impelled towards each other, 
:and cohere in regular figures, or are repelled and recede 
from each other; which forces being unknown, philosophers 
have hitherto attempted the search of nature in vain; hut I 
'hope the principles here laid down will afford some light 
^either to that or some truer method of philosophy. 

In the publication of this work, the most acute and uni- 
Tcrsally learned Mr. Edmund Halley not only assisted me 
jwith his pains in correcting the press and taking care of the 
ischemes, but it was to his solicitations that its becotbing 
I public is owing; for when he had obtained of me my demon- 
!] atrations of the figure of the celestial orbils, he continually 
j pressed me to communicate the same to the Royal Society, 
\ wrho afterwards, by their kind encouragement and entreaties, 
j ei^aged me to think of publishing them. But after I had bfl- 
ijpin to consider the inequalities of the Kmar motions, and 
I had entered upon some other things relating to the laws and 
1 measures of gravity, and other forces ; and the figures that 
I wBuId be described by bodies attracted according to given 
laws; and the motion of several bodies moving among thera- 
I selves; the motion of bodies in resisting mediums; the forces, 
J densities, and motions of mediums; the orbits of the comets, 
I and such like ; I put off that publication till I had made a 
:, Eearch into those matters, and could put out the whole to- 
I gether. What relates to the lunar motions (being imperfect) 
I have put all together in the corollaries of proposition 66, 
to avoid being obliged to propose and distinctly demonstrate 
, the several tilings there contained in a method more prolix 
than the subject deserved, and interrupt the series of the 
several propositions. Some things, found out after the rest, 
I chose to insert in places less suitable, rather than change 
the number of the propositions and the citations. I heartily 
beg that what I have here done may be read with candor; 
and thai the defects I have been guilty of upon this difficult 
subject may be not so much reprehended as kindly supplied, 
and Investigated by new endeavors of my readers. 

Cambridge, Triniiy College, IsAAC NeWTON. 
May 8, i6S6. 



PREFACE TO FABLES, 
ANCIENT AND MODERN 

BY JOHN DRYDEN. (i7«>) 

*n^IS with a poet, as wilii a man who designs to IN 
I and is rery exact, as he supposes, in casting u^ 

-L cost beforehand; but, generally qieaking, be tsj 
taken in his account, and reckoos short of the expend 
fint intended. He alters his mind as the work prod 
um) wfl] have tliis or that conrenieocc roore, of whicl 
bad not thongfat when be began. So has it happeo'd to' 
I btve built a bouse, wbere I intended bat a lodge; yet j 
better success than a certain oobleman,* who, beginniagj 
k dog kennel, never liVd to finish the palace be had conn 

From translating die first of Homer's Iliads (wbl 
intended as an essay to the whole work) I proceeded m 
translatioii of the nrtlfth book of Ortd's MrtamorpH 
because it contains, among other things, the canscsj 
b^inning, and ending, of the Trojan war. Here I oci{j 
reason to have stopp'd; hot the speeches of Ajax and uS 
ViDg next in mj way. I cooM not baSc 'em. When I 
contpass'd them, I was so taken with the former pari ol 
fifteenth book, (which is the masterpiece of the « 
Urtamorpkosrs.) that I enjoin'd myself the pleasing tal 
rend'ring it into English. And now I fooiKi, by the j 
ber of my verges, that they began to sweD into a i 
volame ; which gave mc an occasion of looking backwtril 
■ome beauties of my atttbor, in his former books. 

Jate Drfim (i<]i-tf««t. (W trot ^natfic aad laliried BMej 
Mw t ymwh ««ai7. *h«r UmiIWIm oI Vinira - JBaeSa * | 
hi nt A tt v^OM •« *> a«rw4aS5Sr*Li .u ^r«*^b«^«a| 
3 ■MWttw.foM..^ Srt»C^iiwiy'irtSi! C 




TO FABLES 



161 



occurr'd to me the Hunting of the Boar, Cinyras and Myr- 
fha, the good-natur'd story of Baucis and Philemon, with 
'lie rest, which I hope I have translated closely enough, and 
given them the same turn of verse which they had in the 
original ; and this, I may say without vanity, is not the talent 
of every poet He who has arriv'd the nearest to it, is the 
ingenious and learned Sandys, the best versifier of the for- 
tter age; if I may properly call it by that name, which was 
fie former part of this concluding century. For Spenser 
and Fairfax both flourish 'd in the reign of Queen EHzabeth; 
great masters in our language, and who saw much farOier 
ittto the beauties of our numbers than those who immediate- 
ly foUow'd them, Milton was the poetical son of Spenser, 
*od Mr, Waller of Fairfax, for we have our lineal de- 
scents and clans as well as other families, Spenser more 
than once insinuates that the soul of Chaucer was trans- 
(ua'd into his body, and that he was begotten by him two 
Imndred years after his decease. Milton has acknowledg'd 
Id tat that Spenser was his original, and many besides my- 
self have heard our famous Waller own that he deriv'd the 
harmony of his numbers from the Godfrey of BuUoign, 
which was tum'd into English by Mr, Fairfax. Bvt to re- 
turn. Having done with Ovid for this time, it came into 
my mind that our old English poet, Chaucer, in many things 
resembled him, and that with no disadvantage on the side 
of the modern author, as I shall endeavor to prove when I 
corapare them ; and as I am, and always have been, studious 
to promote the honor of my native country, so I soon re- 
solv'd to put their merits to the trial, by turning some of the 
(Canterbury Tales into our language, as it is now refin'd; 
fox by this means, both the poets being set in the same light, 
and dress'd in the same English habit, story to be compar'd 
^'•tii story, a certain judgment may be made betwixt them 
py the reader, without obtruding my opinion on him. Or, 
ff I seem partial to my countryman and predecessor in the 
^lirel, the friends of antiquity are not few; and besides 
"^aoy of the leam'd, Ovid has almost all the beaux, and the 
"hole fair sex, his declar'd patrons. Perhaps I have as- 
stuii'd somewhat more to myself than they allow me, because 
I have advcntur'd to sum up the evidence; but the readers 
(s) Hc— vdi. ae 






«K tt« j«T. aal Acir p ^ ti egt n^^tas entire, to d«eM 
aOBDiAiC ** 1^ sm!s «f *c cnne, or if tbey please, 
hamt it ao aBadho- fciiiim teiuR aome otber cotul 

w Mm Arid af 07 discoarse, (. 

Hz. llBJirt. tan alwxys son 
) m tiva Qmaaa I was M to Oiak on Boccac 
«ka «•> aot ^rif lii coMBHpMaiy, kot also parsaed ( 




K«ei^«(l 



: fetf witfa diis differcM 
lor ba^amgK, at bast 

Bdt hOf ««■ iB I I I KtrndL Bitf fiie refon 
•I Atir |««K «as wtaOf vriBK •■ Baoan Umsclf. 1 

•t Ifa f i wM ■» fci mt afcawh^ i ia frocess of ti 

■■M wcAt taffo. ^^iMBar (as jti^ tare bMUul^ bi 




I tani^. tal 4E<ir'« •( the I 



^ TO FABLES I8J 

■ tber would count fourscore and eight before they judg"*! 
W him. By the mercy of God, I am already come within 
I twenty years of his number, a cripple in my lirabs; but what 

I decays are in my mind, the reader must determine. 1 think 
toyielf as vigorous as ever in the faculties of my soul, ex- 
cepting only my memory, which is not impair'd to any great 
I ''tgree; and if I lose not more of it, I have no great reason 
to complain. What judgment I had, increases rather than 
'finiinishes : and thoughts, such as they are, come crowd- 
'"g in so fast upon me, that my only difficulty is to choose 
°f to reject; to run them into verse, or to give them the 
°tfcer harmony of prose. I have so long studied and practic'd 
Poih, that they are grown into a habit, and become famil- 
*^i to me. In short, tho' I may lawfully plead some part 
•^^ the old gentleman's excuse, yet I will reserve it tilt I 
*t»ink I have greater need, and ask no grains of allowance 
*^ar the faults of this my present work, but those which are 
^tiyen of course to human fraihy. I will not trouble my 
*~^aader with the shortness of time in which I writ it, or the 
^ ^veral intervals of sickness. They who think too well of 
^-^cir own performances are apt to boast in their prefacca 
^*.ow little time their works have cost them, and what other 
^^usiness of more importance interf er'd ; but the reader will 
^^e as apt to ask the question, why they allow'd not a longer 
'^;ime to make their works more perfect, and why they bad 
^^o despicable an opinion of their judges as to thrust theif 
^.ndigested stuff upon them, as if they deserv'd no better. 

With this account of my present undertaking, I conclude 
'Vhe first part of this discourse; in the second part, as at a 
^Kcond sitting, tho' I alter not the draught. I must touch 
"Vbe Game features over again, and change the dead color- 
Sng* of the whole. In general, I will only say that I have 
"written nothing which savors of immorality or profaneness; 
at least, I am not conscious to myself of any such inten- 
tion. If there happen to be found an irreverent expression, 
or a thought too wanton, they are crept into my verses thro* 
my inadvertency; if the searchers find any in the cargo, lot 
them be stav'd or forfeited, like counterbanded goods; at 
least, let their authors be answerable for them, as lieing 
■ The foondatioii layer of coloi in ■ painlini^ 



JOHN DRYDEK 

but imported merchandise, and not o( my own manufacture; 
On the other side, I have endeavor'd to choose such fables,, 
both ancient and modem, as contain in each of them s 
instructive moral ; which I could prove by induction, but the 
way is tedious, and they leap foremost into sight, without 
the reader's trouble of looking after them. I wish I conltt 
aSirm, with a safe conscience, that I had taken the same care 
in all my former writings ; for it must be own'd, that 
supposing verses are never so beautiful or pleasing, yet 
if they contain anything which shocks religion, or good ' 
manners, they are at best what Horace says of good i 
bers without good sense. Versus inopes rerum, nugaque 
canorts* Thus far, I hope, I ara right in court, withoutj 
renouncing to my other right of self-defense, where I havQ 
been wrongfully accus'd, and my sense wiredrawn into 
blasphemy or bawdry, as it has often heen by a religioui 
lawyer," in a late pleading against the stage; in whicfi 
he mixes truth with falsehood, and has not forgotti 
the old rule of calumniating strongly, that something raxf 
remain. 

I resume the thrid of my discourse with the first of tiiy 
translations, which was the First Iliad of Homer. If it shall 
please God to give me longer life, and moderate health, my^ 
intentions are to translate the whole Hias; provided still 
that I meet with those encouragements from the public 
which may enable me to proceed in my undertaking i 
some cheerfulness. And this I dare assure the world 
beforehand, that I have found by trial Homer a mon 
pleasing task than Virgil, (tho' I say not the translation 
will be less laborious). For the Grecian is more accord* 
ing to my genius than the Latin poet. In the works of the 
two authors we may read their manners and natural inclina- 
tions, which are wholly different. Virgil was of a quie^ 
sedate temper; Homer was violent, impetuous, and full of 
fire. The chief talent of Virgil was propriety of thoughtSi 
and ornament of words; Homer was rapid in his thought^ 
and took all the liberties, both of numbers and of expre 
sions, which his language, and the age in which he Iiv'(I| 

■jEremy Collier, in bis Shorl Viita ol tht Intmorlalily' and' Prof m 
of A> State. 169S. 



TO PABLES 165 

_ W'd him. Homer's invention was more copious, Vir- 

pa more confin'di so that if Homer had not led the way, 
*' ^as not in Virgil to have begun heroic poetry ; for nothing 
^"^ be more evi<]ent than that the Roman poem is but the 
^^Cond part of the lUas; a continuation of the same story, 
*c»J the persons already form'd; the manners of ^Eneas 
^■"e those of Hector superadded to those which Homer gave 
Aim. The adventures of Ulysses in the Odysieis are 
imitated in the first six books of Virgil's Mneis; and 
tho' the accidents are not the same, (which would have ■ 
argued him of a servile, copying, and total barrenness of 
invention.) yet the seas were the same, in which both the 
heroes wander'd; and Dido cannot be denied to he the 
poetical daughter of Calypso. The six latter books of Vir- 
gil's poem are the four and twenty Iliads contracted: a 
quarrel occasion'd by a lady, a single combat, battles fought, 
and a town besieg'd. I say not this in derogation to Vir- 
gil, neither do I conttadict anything which I have formerly 
said in his just praise: for his episodes are almost wholly 
of his own invention ; and the form which he has given to 
the telling makes the tale his own, even tho' the original 
story had been the same. But this proves, however, that 
Homer taught Virgil to design; and if invention be the first 
virtue of an epic poet, then the Latin poem can only be 
allow'd the second place. Mr. Hohbes, in the preface to 
his own bald translation of the Ilias (studying poetry as 
he did mathematics, when it was too late) — Mr. Hobbes, 
I say, begins the praise of Homer where he should have 
ended it. He tells us that the first beauty of an epic poem 
consists in diction, that is, in the choice of word^ and 
harmony of numbers: now the words are the coloring of 
the work, which in the order of nature is last to be con- 
sider'd. The design, the disposition, the manners, and the 
thoughts, are all before it; where any of those are wanting 
or imperfect, so much wants or is imperfect in the imitation 
of human life; which is in the very definition of a poem. 
Words, indeed, like glaring colors, are the first beauties 
that arise and strike the sight: but if the draught be false 
or lame, the figures ill dispos'd, the manners obscure or 
inconsistent, or the thoughts unnatural, then the finest colors 



US JOHN DRTDBN 

arc but daubing, and tte piece is a beautiful monster at tbi 
best Neither Virgil nor Homer were deficient in any of the 
former beauties; but in this last, which is expression, lh( 
Roman poet is at least equal to the Grecian, as I have ssid 
elsewhere; supplying the poverty of his language by lui 
musical ear, and by his diligence. But to return; oui 
great poets, being so different in their tempers, one cholerit 
and sanguine, the other phlegmatic and melancholic; 
which makes them them excel in their several ways is that 
each of them has follow'd his own natural inclination, u 
well in forming the design as in the execution of it. The 
very heroes shew their authors: Achilles is hot, impatieol, 
revengeful, Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer' 
jEneas patient, considerate, careful of his people, and n 
ful to his enemies; ever submissive to the will of Heavea 
~~Quo fata IrahtiM retrakuntque sfquamvr.' I could pleass 
myself with enlarging on this subject, but am forc'd to 
defer it to a fitter time. From all I have said 1 will only 
draw this inference, that the action of Homer being 
full of vigor than that of Virgil, according to the temper of 
the writer, is of consequence more pleasing to the reader. 
One warms you by degrees: the other sets you on fire all at 
once, and never intermits his heat. 'Tis the same differenct 
which Longinus makes betwixt the effects of eloquence in 
Demosthenes and Tully. One persuade* j-fHe other com- 
mands. You never cool while you read Homer, even not in 
the second book (a graceful flattery to his countrymen)! 
but he hastens from the ships, and concludes not that book 
till he has made you an amends by the violent playing of 1. 
new machine. From thence he hurries on his action with 
variety of events, and ends it in less compass than 
months. This vehemence of his, I confess, is more suitable 
to my temper; and therefore I have translated his first book 
with greater pleasure than any part of Virgil ; but it was not 
a pleasure without pains. The continual agitations of tl» 
spirits must needs be a weak'ning of any constitution, eape* 
cially in age ; and many pauses are requir'd for refreshment 






the 'f»ttB 



w'ioUoK 



IS.?=W^ 



TO FABLBS 

fetwixt the heats; the Iliad of itself being a third part 
longer than all Virgil's works together. 

This is what I thought needful in this place to say of 
Homer. I proceed to Ovid and Chaucer, considering the 
former only in relation to the latter. With Ovid ended 
the golden age of the Roman tongue; from Chaucer the 
purity of the English tongiie began. The manners of the 
poets were not unlike: both of them were well bred, 
well natur'd, amorous, and libertine, at least in their writ- 
ings, il may be also in their lives. Their studies were the 
same, philosophy and philology. Both of them were know- 
ing in astronomy, of which Ovid's books of the Roman 
feasts, and Chaucer's treatise of the Astrolabe, are sufficient 
witnesses. But Chaucer was likewise an astrologer, as were 
Virgil, Horace, Persius, and ManiUus, Both writ with won- 
derful facility and clearness: neither were great inventors; 
for Ovid only copied the Grecian fables; and moat of 
Chaucer's stories were taken from his Italian contempo- 
ra.ries, or their predecessors.' Boccace his Decameron was 
first pubJish'd; and from thence our Englishman has bor- 
row'd many of his Canterhury Tales; yet that of Palamon 
and Arcite was written in all probability by some Italian wit 
in a former age, as I shall prove hereafter. The tale of 
GrUild was the invention of Petrarch; by him sent to Boc- 
ca^ce ; from whom it came to Chaucer. Troiltis and Cressida 
jTfas also written hy a Lombard author; but much amplified 
our English translator, as well as beautified; the genius 
countrymen, in general, being rather to improve an 
'ention, than to invent themselves; as is evident not 
Ohly in our poetry, but in many of our manufactures. I find 
I have anticipated already, and taken up from Boccace be- 
fore I come to him; but there is so much less behind; and I 
am of the temper of most kings, ivho love to be in debt, 
are all for present money, no matter how they pay it after- 
wards; besides, the nature of a preface is rambling; never 
wholly out of the way, nor in it. This I have leam'd from 
the practice of honest Montaigne, and return at my pleasure 
to Ovid and Chaucer, of whom I have little more to say. 

'Tke jtatenwnts ihai follnw as lo Chaiietr'a sources are moBllj not In 
KSatd wilb tba nsulu ef modern schalarship. 



Both of fhem built on tlie inventions of other men; yet 
since Chaucer liad something of his own, as The Wife of 
Bath's Tale. The Cock and the Fox," which I have trans- 
lated, and some others, I may justly give our countryman 
the precedence in that part ; since I can remember nothing 
of Ovid which was wholly his. Both of them understood 
the manners, under which name I comprehend ihe passions. 
and, in a larger sense, the descriptions of persons, and their 
very habits ; for an example, I see Baucis and Philemon as 
perfectly before me, as if some ancient painter had drawn 
them; and all the pilgrims in the Canterbury Tales, their 
faimiars, their features, and the very dress, as distinctly i 
1 had supp'd with them at the Tabard in Southwark ; yet 
even there too the figures of Chaucer are much more lively, 
and set in a better light: which iho' I have not time to prove, 
yet I appeal to the reader, and am sure he will clear me 
from partiality. The thoughts and words remain to be 
consider'd in the comparison of the two poets; and I have 
sav'd myself one half of that labor, by owning that Ovid 
liv'd when the Roman tongue was in its meridian, Chaucer 
in the dawning of our language; therefore that part of the 
comparison stands not on an equal foot, any more than the 
diction of Ennius and Ovid, or of Chaucer and our present 
English. The words are given up as a post not to be de- 
fended in our poet, because he wanted the modem art of 
fortifying. The thoughts remain to be consider'd, and they 
are to be measur'd only by their propriety; that is, as th^ 
flow more or less naturally from the persons describ'd, 
such and such occasions. The vulgar judges, which are 
nine parts in ten of ail nations, who call conceits and jingles 
wit, who see Ovid full of them, and Qiaucer altogether with- 
out them, will think me little less than mad, for preferring 
the Englishman to the Roman : yet, with their leave, 1 must 
presume to say that the things they admire are only glitter- 
ing trifles, and so far from being witty, that in a set" 
poem they are nauseous, because they are unnatural. Would 
any man who is ready to die for love describe his passion 
like Narcissus? Would he think of inopem me eofila 
fecit" and a dozen more of such expressions, pour'd oa 

VTbc (lat of neiihci of theic foaat wu ongiiul with CtauBM 



TO FABLES 

Hie neck of one another, and signifying all the same thing? 
If this were wit, was this a time to be witty, when the poor 
wretch was in the agony of death ? This is just John Little- 
wit in Bartholomew Fair," who had a conceit (as he tells 
you) left him in his misery: a miserable conceit. On these 
occasions the poet shouid endeavor to raise pity; but instead 
of this, Ovid is tickling you to laugh. Virgil never made use 
of such machines, when he was moving you to commiser- 
ate the death of Dido: he would not destroy what he was 
building. Chaucer makes Arcite violent in his love, and un- 
just in the pursuit of it; yet when he came to die, he made 
him think more reasonably: he repents not of his love, for 
that had alter'd his character; but acknowledges the in- 
justice of his proceedings, and resigns Emilia to Palamon. 
What would Ovid have done on this occasion? He would 
certainly have made Arcite witty on his deathbed. He had 
complain'd he was farther off from possession by being so 
near, and a thousand such boyisms, which Chaucer rejected 
as below the dignity of the subject. They who think other- 
wsc would by the same reason prefer Lucan and Ovid to 
Homer and Virgil, and Martial to all four of them. As for 
the turn of words, in which Ovid particularly excels all 
poets, they are sometimes a fault, and sometimes a beauty, 
as they are us'd properly or improperly ; but in strong pas- 
sions always to be shunn'd, because passions are serious, and 
vrHl admit no playing. The French have a high value for 
them; and I confess, they are often what they call delicate, 
when they are introdue'd with judgment; but Chaucer writ 
with more simplicity, and follow'd nature more closely, than 
to use them. I have thus far, to the best of my knowledge, 
been an upright judge betwixt the parties in competition, 
not meddling with the design nor the disposition of it; 
because the design was not their own, and in the disposing 
of it they were equal. It remains that I say somewhat of 
Chaucer in particular. 

In the first place, as he is the father of English poetry, so 
I hold him in the same degree of veneration as the Grecians 
held Homer or the Romans Virgil. He is a perpetual foun- 
taih of good sense, leam'd in all sciences, and therefortf 

■■ " Plentr bai madE me poor." — Mela, iii, 466, " B7 Ben Jmuoh* 



JOHN DKTDSN 

•peaks properly en zll nrbjects: as be Iraev wtitt H s^ 
to he knows also whea to leave off, a eontineoce wliidi W 
practk'd by few writers, and Kairel)' by any of Ifae ancieDli, 
excepting Virgil and Horace. One of our late great poett* 
IS nmk in bis reputation, because he could never foi^ve aaj 
conceit which came in his way, bat swept like a drag- 
net, great and small. There was pleitty enough, but the 
dishes were ill sorted; whole pyramids of sweetmeats foe 
boys and women, but little of solid meat for men. AH 
this proceeded not from any want of knowledge, but ol 
judgment; neither did he want that in discerning the beautid 
and faults of other poets; but only indulg'd himself is th« 
luxury of writing; and perhaps knew it was a fault, bat 
hop'd the reader would not find it. For this reasouj 
tho' he must always be thought a great poet, he is o» 
longer esteem'd a good writer; and for ten impression^ 
which his works have had in so many successive yearS) 
yet at present a hundred books are S4:arcety purchaa'd 
a twelvemonth: for, as my last Lord Rochester sai^ 
tho' somewhat profanely, "Not being of God, he could' 
not stand." 

Chaucer follow'd Nature everywhere, but was never ta 
bold to go beyond her; and there ts a great difference ol 
being poeta and nimis poeta," if we may believe Catullus, 
much as betwixt a modest behavior and afFectatiom. The 
verse of Chaucer, I confess, is not harmonious to us; but 
'tis like the eloquence of one whom Tacitus commends, it 
was auribus islius Icmporis accommodala:" they who Uv'd 
with him, and some time after him, thought it musical; and 
it continued so even in our judgment, if compar'd with tha 
numbers of Lydgate and Gower, his contemporaries: ther* 
is the rude sweetness of a Scotch tune in it, which is 
natural and pleasing, tho' not perfect. T is true, I cannot go 
to far as he who publish'd the last edition of him ;" for he 
would make us believe the fault is in our ears, and that there 
were really ten syllables in a verse where we find but nine: 
but this opinion is not worth confuting; 'tis so gross and 
obvious an error, that common sense (which is a rule in 

"CowlfT' ""Too imich ■ piwt"— Martial iil. 44 (not CatoUtu). 

** Sp^bb whwB mtiduD •cSolutbip hu tiuma to be right in tbia nMm 



TO FABLES 



171 



? 



eveiydliflg but matters of faith and revelation) must con- 
vincc the reader that equality of numbers in every verse 
which we call heroic was either not known, or not always 
practic'd. in Chaucer's age. It were an easy matter to pro- 
duce some thousands of his verses, which are lame for want 
of half a foot, and sometimes a whole one, and which no 
pronunciation can make otherwise. We can only say, that 
fee liv'd in the infancy of our poetry, and that nothing is 
bfcaught to perfection at the first. We must be children be- 
fot-e we grow men. There was an Ennius, and in process of 
'imt a Lucilius and a Lucretius, before Virgil and Horace; 
e^r«n after Chaucer there was a Spenser, a Harrington, a 
F^^irfax, before Waller and Denhara were in being: and 
^■■j.T numbers were in their nonage till these last appear'd. 
I need say little of his parentage, life, and fortunes;" they 
a.K-« to be found at large in all the editions of his works. He 
^»^^M employ'd abroad and favor'd by Edward the Third, 
^*-»chard the Second, and Henry the Fourth, and was poet, 
*-^ I suppose, to all three of them. In Richard's time, I 
<^«:3ubt, he was a little dipp'd in the rebellion of the com- 
^^^"Kns, and being brother-in-law to John of Ghant, it was no 
*^^'^^"<inder if he follow'd the fortunes of that family, and was 
'^^'"■^ll with Henry the Fourth when he had depos'd his pred- 
^ ^Seasor. Neither is it to be admir'd," that Henry, who was 
^^- wise as well as a valiant prince, who claim'd by succession, 
^^-"5id was sensible that his title was not sound, but was 
*^-ightfully in Mortimer, who had married the heir of York; 
^^"^ was not to be adrair'd, I say, if that great politician should 
^»e pleas'd to have the greatest wit of those times in his 
^TiterestE, and to be the trumpet of his praises. Augustus 
^nad given him the example, by the advice of Mascenas, who 
^^commended Virgil and Horace to him ; whose praises 
^dp'd to make him popular while he was alive, and after his 
^eath have made him precious to posterity. As for the re- 
^gioD of our poet, he seems to have some little bias towards 
the opinions of Wyciiffe, after John of Ghant his patron; 
somewhat of which appears in the tale of Piers Plowman." 
Yet I cannot blame him for inveighing so sharply against the 

"What follows on Chaucer's life is fall of errors. "Wondered aL 
>A iptiriaui " Ptawmu's Ttle" wu included Id the older editions of 







JOHN DRYDEN 

in his age; their pride, their ambttiaq 
their pomp, their avarice, their worldly interest, dcseiVd 
the lashes which he gave them, both in that and in most ol 
his Cail^^bury Tales: neither has his contemporaiy Boccacc 
spar'd them. Yet both those poets liv'd in much esteem wiA 
good and holy men in orders; for the scandal which is giveq 
by particular priests reflects not on the sacred functtoa 
Chaucer's Monk, his Canon, and his Friar, took not from 
the character of his Good Parson. A satirical poet is the 
check of the laymen on bad priests. We are only to talca 
care that we involve not the innocent with the guilty in the 
same condemnation. The good cannot be too much honor'^ 
nor the bad too coarsely us'd : for the corruption of the betl 
becomes the worst. When a clergyman is whipp'd, his gown 
is first taken off, by which the dignity of his order is 
cur'd: if he be wrongfully accus'd, he has his action of slan- 
der; and 'tis at the poet's peril if he transgress the law. 
But they will tell us that all kind of satire, tho' never 
well deserv'd by particular priests, yet brings the whole or- 
der into contempt. Is then ^e peerage of England anything 
dishonor'd, when a peer suffers for his treason? If he " 
libel'd or any way dcfam'd, he has his scandalum magnO' 
lum" to punish the offender. They who use this Idnd 
argument seem to be conscious to themselves of somewl 
which has deserv'd the poet's lash, and are less concem'd foi 
their public capacity than for their private; at least there U 
pride at the bottom of their reasoning. If the faults of n 
in orders are only to be judg'd among tliemselves, they i 
all in some sort parties; for, since they say the honor 
tneir order is concem'd in every member of it, how can 
be sure that they will be impartial judges? How far I m^ 
be allow'd to speak my opinion in this case, I know not| 
hut I am sure a dispute of this nature caus'd mischief it 
abundance betwixt a king of England and an archbishop ol 
Canterbury ;" one standing up for the laws of his land, aik 
the other for the honor (as he call'd it) of God's Church: 
which ended in the murther of the prelate, and in thi 
whipping of his Majesty from post to pillar for his 

*• A law term tor slander of a man of high unli, Involv 
poniilimeat ttmn Dtdiniiy alandir. " lienor II. aad T 



TO FABLES 173 

The leam'd and ingenious Dr. Drake" has sav'd me the 
labour of inquiring into the esteem and reverence which 
Ac priests have had of old, and I would rather extend than 
dimmish any part of it; yet I must needs say, that when a 
priest provokes me without any occasion given him, I have 
no reason, unless it be the charity of a Christian, to forgive 
him: prior l<ssif is justification sufficient in the civil law. 
If I answer him in bis own language, self-defense, I am 
sure, must be allow'd me; and if I carry it farther, even to 
a sharp recrimination, somewhat may be indulg'd to human 
frailty. Yet my resentment has not wrought so far, but that 
I have follow'd Chaucer in his character of a holy man, and 
liave enlarg'd on that subject with some pleasure, reserving 
to myself the right, if I shall tliink fit hereafter, to describe 
another sort of priests, such as are more easily to be found 
'than the Good Parson ; such as have given the last blow to 
Christianity in this age. by a practice so contrary to their 
doctrine. But this will keep cold till another time. In the 
mean while I take up Chaucer where I left him. He must 
have been a man of a most wonderful comprehensive nature, 
because, as it has been truly observ'd of him, he has taken 
info the compass of his Canterbury Tales the various man- 
ners and humors (as we now call them) of the whole 
English nation, in his age. Not a single character has 
escap'd him. All his pilgrims are severally distinguish'd 
from each other; and not only in their inclinations, but in 
their very physiognomies and persons. Bapista Porta" could 
not have describ'd their natures better, than by the marks 
which the poet gives them. The matter and manner of 
flieir tales, and of their telling, are so suited to their differ- 
ent educations, humors, and callings, that each of them 
would be improper in any other mouth, Even the grave 
and serious characters are distinguish'd by their several 
sorts of gravity : their discourses are such as belong to their 
age, their calling, and their breeding; such as are becom- 
ing of them, and of them only. Some of his persons are 
vicious, and some virtuous; some are unlearn'd, or (as 
Chaucer calls them) lewd, and some are learn'd. Even the 

" Dr. James Drake wrols a reply to Jeremy Collier's Short Vim. 

""H= did thEfir^i injury." 

"A Neapolitui physicisa who wrote no phijaioeaoaij. 



Ht JOHN DRTSBK 

ribaldry of the Icnr cfaanwscra 15 different: Ae Reeve, the- 
IdlDer. and the Cook are seveial men, and distinguish'd 
from each otfacr, as utoch as the mincing Lady Prioresi 
and the broad-fpeakin? gap-tooth'd Wife of Bath. But 
om^fh of this: there is mch a rarietj of game springing 
up before me. thai I am distracted in my choice, and laiov 
cot vhich to follow. 'Tis sufficient to say, accoTding to 
the proverb, that here is God's plenty. We have our fore* 
fathers and great -grandames all before us, as they wei 
Chaucer's days: their general characters are still remaining 
in mankind, and even in England, ibo' they are call'd by 
Other names than those of Monks and Friars, and Canons, 
and Lady Abbesses, and Nuns: for mankind is ever the 
same, and nothing lost out of nature, tho' everything 
alter'd. May I have leave to do myself the justice — sinc«: 
iny enemies will do me none, and are so far from grantii^ 
me to be a good poet, that they will not allow me 
much as 10 be a Christian, or a moral man — may I have 
leave, I say. to inform my reader that I have confin'd my 
choice to such tales of Chaucer as savor nothing of 
modesty. If I had desir'd more to please than to instruct 
the Reeve, the Miller, the Shipman. the Merchant, th« 
Sumner, and, above all, the Wife of Bath, in the prologue 
to her tale, would have procur'd me as many friends and 
readers, as there are beau;: and ladies of pleasure in the 
town. But I will no more offend against good manners; 
I am sensible, as I ought to be, of the scandal I have given 
by my loose writings ; and make what reparation I am abl^ 
by this public acknowledgment. If anything of this oatur^ 
or of profaneness, be crept into these poems. I am so fae 
from defending it, that I disown it. Tatum hoc indicium 
nolo* Chaucer makes another manner of apology for hij 
broad speaking, and Boccace makes the like; bat I will fol- 
low neither of them. Our countryman, in the end of his 
characters, before the Canterbury Tales, thus excuses th« 
fibaldry, which is very gross in many of his novels: 

Bat first, I pray yon of jrour conrteijr, 
That ye ne arrele" it nought my vilUny, 
Thoush that I plainly speak in this mattoe 
• " 1 with «U tlii> aa&tid." " Rcckoik 



TO FABLES JOS 

To tellen yon her" words, and eke her cbere: 

Ne [hougb I apeak her words properly, 

For this ye Icnowen as well as I, 

Who shall tellec a tale after a man, 

He mote rehearse as nyc as ever he can: 

Everich word of it been in bis charge. 

AH spete he nin'er lo rudely ne targe. 

Or else he mote telten his tale mitrue, 

Or feine things, or find words new : 

He may not spare, altbo he were hia brother. 

He mote as well say o word as another. 

Cfarist spake himself full broad in holy writ. 

And well I wote no vitlany is it. 

Eko Plato «3iib. who so can him rede, 

The words mote" becai cousin to the dede." 

Yet if a man should have enquir'd of Boccace or of 
Chaucer, what need they had of introducing such char- 
acters, where obscene words were proper in their mouths, 
but very undecent to be heard; I know not what answer 
they could have made: for that reason such tales shall be 
left untold by me. You have here a specimen of Chaucer's 
language, which is so obsolete that his sense is scarce to 
be understood ; and you have likewise more than one ex- 
ample of his unequal numbers, which were mention'd be- 
fore. Yet many of his verses consist of ten syllables, and 
the words not much behind our present English: as for 
example, these two lines, in the description of the car- 
penter's young wife: 



I have almost done with Chaucer, when I have answer'd 
some objections relating to my present work, I find some 
people are offended that I have tum'd these tales into 
modern English; because they think them unworthy of 
my pains, and look on Chaucer as a dry, old-fashion'd wit, 
not worth reviving. I have often heard the late Earl of 
Leicester say that Mr. Cowley himself was of that opinion ; 
who having read him over at my lord's request, declar'd 
he had no taste of him. I dare not advance my opinion 



*lv foyikii found (^uect rough. 



* pasugE is enoDgb to explain 



tn 



JOmt DRTDEN 



^ 



against the judgment of so great an author; tnit I thid: 
it fair, however, to leave the decision to the public 
Cowley was too modest to set up for a dictator; and bem{ 
shock'd perhaps with his old style, never examin'd into the 
depth of his good sense. Chaucer, I confess, is a rough dis^ 
mond, and must first be polish'd, ere he shines. I deny nqt,. 
lilfewise, that, living in our early days of poetry, he writs 
not always of a piece, but sometimes mingles trivial things 
with those of greater moment Sometimes also, tho' not often, 
he runs riot, like Ovid, and knows not when he has said 
enough. But there are more great wits, beside Chaucer, 
whose fault is their excess of conceits, and those ill sorted. 
An author is not to write all he can, but only all he ougbt 
Having observed this redundancy in Chaucer, (as ii 
easy matter for a man of ordinary parts to find a fault 
in one of greater,) I have not tied myself to a literal trans- 
lation ; but have often omitted what I judg'd unnecessarf, 
or not of dignity enough to appear in the company of better 
thoughts. I have presum'd farther, in some places, and added 
somewhat of my own where I thought my author i 
deficient, and had not given his thoughts their true luster, 
for want of words in the beginning of our language. And 
to this I was the more embolden'd, because (if I may b« 
permitted to say it of myself) I found I had a soul c 
genial to his, and that I had been conversant in the same 
studies. Another poet, in another age, may take the same 
liberty with my writings; if at least they live long enougll 
to deserve correction. It was also necessary sometimes ta 
restore the sense of Chaucer, which was lost or mangled 
in the errors of the press. Let this example suffice ab 
present; in the story of Falamon and ArcUe, where thtt 
temple of Diana is describ'd, you find these verses, in 
the editions of our author : 

There saw I Dane turned nsto a tree, 

I mean not the goddess Diane, 

Bnt Venus daughter, which that bight Dani; 

which after a little consideration I knew was to he refornrt 
into this sense, that Daphne, the daughter of Pcnens, \ 
turn'd into a tree, I durst not make thus bold with Ovi^ 



TO FABLES 



177 
iried 



lest some future Milbourne should arise, and say I 
from my author, because I understood him not. 

But there are other judges, who think I ought not to 
lavc translated Chaucer into English, out of a quite con- 
irary notion : they suppose there is a certain veneration 
due to his old language ; and thai it is little less than profa- 
nation and sacrilege to alter it. They are farther of opinion 
that somewhat of his good sense will suffer in this trans- 
fasion, and much of the beauty of his thoughts will in- 
fallibly be lost, which appear with more grace in their old 
habit. Of this opinion was that excellent person whom 1 
mention'd, the late Earl of Leicester, who valued Chaucer 
as much as Mr. Cowley despis'd him. My lord dissuaded 
me from this attempt, ( for I was thinking of it some years 
before his dealh,) and his authority prevail'd so far with 
IBC as to defer my undertaking while he liv'd, in deference 
to him: yet my reason was not convinc'd with what he 
tirg'd against it. If the first end of a writer be to be 

K~"~ ' Tstood, then as his language grows obsolete, his thoughts 



quae nunc cecidere; cadentque, 
int in lionore vocabula, si volet usus, 
aibitrium est cl jus et norma loquend!.'* 



len an ancient word for its sound and significancy de- 
to be revived, I have that reasonable veneration for 
antiquity, to restore it. All beyond this is superstition. 
Words are not like landmarks, so sacred as never to be 
remov'd ; customs are chang'd, and even statutes are silently 
repeal'd, when the reason ceases for which they were en- 
acted. As for the other part of the argument, that his 
thoughts will lose of their original beauty, by the innova- 
tion of words; in the first place, not only their beauty, but 
their being is lost, where they are no longer understood, 
which is the present case. I grant that something must be 
lost in all transfusion, that is, in all translations ; but the 
sense will remain, which would otherwise be lost, or at 




JOBH DETDEX 

t be WMin'i. when it is icarce tDttOigtUe; and that 
to 2 few. How few arc there wbo cma read Chaucer so 
Id tmit Mv aad hnv yrfcaJj t And if imperfectly, then 
k loB pcoit aad no ploanrc Tts act for the use of 
» oU Saxoa frieads tku I kavc taken these pains with 
him: let tfceu n e^ e ct ^ vcnioB, because they have no 
' of it. I Bsde it for tbcir salccs who understand sense 
aad poKUj as well ta itacy, wbea that poetry and sense 
b pot into words which tb^ aoderstand. I will go farther. 
«Dd daic to atU, tbat what beauties I lose in some places, 
I {tve to others which bad than act origtnallj ; but in this 
I maj be partial to nrfsdl; let the reader jadge, and I sub- 
nit to his decision. Yet I think I have just occasion to 
canipUiii of theoi, wbo, because ihey understand Cbauccrj 
woold deprire the greater pan of their countrymen of the 
•ame adrantage, and board bin up, as misers do their 
fraadam gold, only to IooIe on it diemsehres and hinder 
others from making use of it. In sum, I seriously protest 
that no man ever bad, or can bare, a greater veneration 
for Chancer, than myself. I have translated some part of 
his works, only that I might perpetuate his memory, or at 
least refresh it, amongst my countrymen. If I have alter'd 
him anywhere for the better, I must at the same time 
acknowledge that I could have done nothing without him: 
ftcilt «st inventis adiere^ is no great commendatioo ; and 
I am not so vain to think I have deserv'd a greater. I will 
conclude what I have to say of him singly, with this one 
remark: a lady of my acquaintance, who keeps a kind of 
correspondence with some authors of the fair sex tn France, 
has been inform'd by them, that Mademoiselle de Scndery, 
who is as old as Sibyl, and inspir'd like her by the same 
God of Poetry, is at this time translating Chaucer into 
modem French. From which 1 gather that he has been 
formerly translated into the old Proven<;al {for how she 
should come to understand old English I know not). But 
the matter of fact being true, it makes me think that 
there is something in it like fatality; that, after certain 
periods of time, the fame and memory of great wits 
should be renew'd, as Chaucer is both in France and 
" " It i* euy 10 idd ta iri»t U already invented." 





TO FABLES 

EJand If this be wholly chance, 't is octraorditury, and 

1 dare not call it more, for fear of being tax'd with 
luperstition, 

Boccace comes last to be consider'd, who living in the 
same age with Chaucer, had the same genius, and follow'd 
the same studies: both writ novels, and each of them culti- 
vat'Cd his mother tongue. But the greatest resemblance of 
our two modern authors being in their familiar style, and 
pleasing way of relating comical adventures, I may pass it 
over, because I have translated nothing from Boccace of 
that nature. In the serious part of poetry, the advantage 
is wholly on Chaucer's side; for tho' the Englishman has 
fcorrow'd many tales from the Italian, yet it appears that 
those of Boccace were not generally of his own making, but 
'taken from authors of former ages, and by him only model'd; 
^K) that what there was of invention in either of them may 
be judg'd equal. But Chaucer has refin'd on Boccace, and 
Xias mended the stories which he has borrow'd, in his way of 
■telling; tho' prose allows more liberty of thought, and the 
^expression is more easy when unconfin'd by numbers. Our 
^countryman carries weight, and yet wins the race at dis- 
^idvantage. I desire not the reader should take my word, 
^and therefore I will set two of their discourses on the same 
subject, in the same light, for every man to judge betwixt 
"them. I translated Chaucer first, and, amongst the rest, 
:iritch'd on The Wife of Bath's Talc; not daring, as I have 
said, to adventure on her prologue, because 't is too licen- 
tious: there Chaucer introduces an old woman of mean par- 
entage, whom a youthful knight of noble blood was forc'd to 
marry, and consequently loath'd her; the crone being in bed 
with him on the wedding night, and finding bis aversion, 
endeavors to win his affection by reason, and speaks a good 
word for herself (as who could blame her?) in hope to 
mollify the sullen bridegroom. Slie takes her topics from the 
benefits of poverty, the advantages of old age and ugliness, 
the vanity of youth, and the silly pride of ancestry and titles 
without inherent virtue, which is the true nobility. When 
I had clos'd Chaucer, I retum'd to Ovid, and translated some 
more of his fables ; and by this time had so far forgott( 
The Wife of Bath's Tale, that, when I took up Boccace, 



;otten J 

;cace, I 



JOHN DRYDEN 

unawares I feH on the same argument of preferring virtue 
to nobility of blood, and titles, in the story of Sigismonda; 
which I had certainly avoided for the resemblance of the 
two discourses, if my memory had not fail'd me. Let the 
reader weigh them both; and if he thinks roe partial to 
Chaucer, 't is in him to right Boccacc 

I prefer in our countryman, far above all liis other stories, 
the noble poem of Palamon and Arcile, which is of the epic 
kind, and perhaps not much inferior to the Ilias or the 
£neis: the story is more pleasing than either of them, the 
manners as perfect, the diction as poetical, the learning as 
deep and various, and the disposition full as artful; only it 
includes a greater length of time, as taking up seven years 
at least; but Aristotle has left undecided the duration of the 
action; which yet is easily reduc'd into the compass of a 
year, by a narration of what preceded the return of Pala- 
mon to Athens. I had thought for the honor of our nation, 
and more particularly for his, whose laurel, tho' unworthy, 
I have worn after him, that this story was of English' 
growth, and Chaucer's own ; but I was undeceiv'd by Boe- 
cace; for, casually looking on the end of his sevendt 
Giomata, I found Dioneo (under which name he shadow^ 
himself) and Fiametta (who represents his mistress, 
natural daughter of Robert, King of Naples), of whom tbeat 
words are spoken: Dioneo c Fiametta gran pcssa cantaronc 
insieme d' Arcita, e di Palamone :" by which it appears thai 
this story was written before the time of Boccace; but, I' 
name of its author being wholly lost, Chaucer is now becomi 
an original ; and I question not but the poem has i 
many beauties by passing thro' his noble hands. Beside) 
this tale, there is another of his own invention, after tW 
manner of the Provenqals, call'd The Flower and the Leaf* 
with which I was so particularly pleas'd, both for the ini 
tion and the moral, that I cannot hinder myself from r 
mending it to the reader. 

As a corollary to this preface, in which I have done justiei 
to others, I owe somewhat to myself: not that I think i 
worth my time to enter the lists with one M ," or out 

" Dioneo and FUmetta sang logether a long lims of Arcile ar 

■Not by Chauctr. 

••Rev. take Milbourne, who hU attacked DrrdcD'i Virgil. 



TO FABLES 



191 



B ," but barely to take notice, that such men there are 

who have written scurrilously against me, without any 

provocation, M , who is in orders, pretends amongst the 

rest this quarrel to me, that 1 have fallen foul on priesthood: 
if I have, I am only to ask pardon of good priests, and am 
afraid his part of the reparation will come to little. Let 
liim to satis6ed that he shall not be able to force himself 
vpon me for an adversary. I contemn him too much to enter 
into competition with him. His own translations of Virgi! 
Jiave answer'd his criticisms on mine. If (as they say he 
"las declar'd in print) he prefers the version of Ogleby to 
mine, the world has made him the same compliment: for 
't is agreed on all hands, that he writes even below Ogleby: 
that, you will say, is not easily to be done ; but what cannot 

M bring about? I am satisfied, however, that while he 

and I live together, I shaU not be thought the worst poet of 
the age. It looks as if I had desir'd him underhand to write 
so ill against me; but upon my honest word I have not 
brib'd him to do me this service, and am wholly guiltless of 
his pamphlet. 'T is true, I should be giad if I could persuade 
him to continue his good offices, and write such another 
critique on anything of mine: for I find by experience he 
has a great stroke with the reader, when he condemns any 
of my poems, to make the world have a better opinion of 
them. He has taken some pains with my poetry, but nobody 
will be persuaded to take the same with his. If I had taken 
to the Church, (as he affirms, but which was never in my 
thoughts,) I should have had more sense, if not more grace, 
than to have turn'd myself out of my benefice by writing libels 
on ray parishioners. But his account of my manners and my 
principles are of a piece with his cavils and his poetry; and 
BO I have done with him for ever. 

As for the City Bard, or Knight Physician, I hear his 
quarrel to me is that I was the author of Absalom and 
Achitophel, which, he thinks, is a little hard on his fanatic 
patrons in London. 

But I will deal the more civilly with his two poems, be- 
cause nothing ill is to be spoken of the dead: and therefore 



) BUctmoro, ' 



D bad cctiBurcd Drydm for tbe indeceocr 



VMCc be to (be mirrr of las Arikmrs. I viQ odIj say ihat 
it wu aoi for das boUc knight th«t I drew tbe plan of aa 
<fic poem OB Kiac Aitinr. in taj preface to tbe tnuulatioo* 
«f JovcBiL Tbe panltaa ancds of kiagdoBu were machiiM^ 
toe panderoai for biai to maHiacc: aod ibenfore be rejecte^^ 
tben, u Dares du] the whirlb«ts of Eiyx, wben tbey w«n 
ti ii own before him by F-f""' Yet ftom that preface ll 
plunly took his hint: for be be^aa anmeiSately opon tli 
ctory, tbo' be bad ifae buoMss not to acknowledge l^s beni 
factor but, instead of it. to tisdtice me in a libeL 

I diall sajr tbe less of lir. Collier, because in many thinsf 
be bas tax'd me jnstly; and I have pleaded guilty to aU 
tfioasfati and exprcssioiis of nu»e which can be truly argued 
of obscenity, pnifaneneo, of lamioralitT: and retract thenk 
If he be n^ csony, let him trimnpfa : if he be my friend, at 
I have given him no personal occasion to be otherwise, ha 
win be glad of oiy rcpentaoce. It becomes me not to draw 
Biy pea in tbe defense of a bad cause, wben I have so often 
drawn it for a good one. Vet it were not difficult lo prove 
dtat in many places be has perverted my meanii^ f^ hta 
^ oi i e^ and interpreted my words into blasphemy and 
bawdry, of which they were not goilty. Besides that, be is 
toe much given to horseplay in bts raiDery, and comes to 
battle like a dicutor from the plow. I will not say: "Tbe 
seal of God's bonsc has eaten him ixp ;" hot I am sure it hai 
devonr'd some part of his good manners and dvility. It 
night also be doubted whether it were altogether zeal which 
prompted him to this rough manner of proceeding: perhaps 
it became not one of his function to rake into the rubbish at 
ancient and modem plajrs : a di^Toe tnighl have employ'd hi< 
pains to better purpose than in tbe nastiness of Plantus and 
Aristophanes ; whose examples, as they excuse not me, so H 
might be possibly suppos*d that he read them not without 
some pleasure. They who have written commentaries OD 
those poets, or on Horace, Juvenal, and Martial, have ex- 
plained some vices which, without their interpretation, had 
been unknown to modem times. Neither has he jui^d 
partially betwixt the former age and us. 

There is more bawdry in one play of Fletcher's, call'd 
Tht Custom of Ok CotaUry, tban m all oars together. Yet 



TO FABLES 183 

this has been often acted on the stage in my remembrance. 
Are the times so much more reform'd now than they were 
five and twenty years ago? If they are, I congratulate the 
amendment of our morals. But I am not to prejudice the 
cause of my fellow poets, tho' I abandon my own defense: 
they have some of them answered for themselves, and neither 
they nor I can think Mr. Collier so formidable an enemy 
that we should shun him* He has lost ground at the latter 
end of the day, by pursuing his point too far, like the Prince 
of Conde at the battle of Seneffe: from immoral plays to no 
plays, ab abusu ad v,sum, non valet consequentia.^ But being 
a party, I am not to erect myself into a judge. As for the 
rest of those who have written against me, they are such 
scQundrda that they deserve not the least notice to be taken 

of thenu B ^ ■■ ■ and M are only distinguished from the 

crowd by being remember'd to their infamy; 

Demetri, t^ue Tigelli*' 

Discipuloruxn inter jubeo plorare cathedras. 

**"Th^ argument from abuse to use is not valid." 

*^ " You, Demetrius and Tigellius, I bid lament amon^ the cfaairs ox jmtt 
•ebolan.*' Bl|Mkmorc bad once been a scnoolmaster.— 'Nogrei. 



PREFACE TO 
JOSEPH ANDREWS 

BV HENRY HELOiNG (1742) 
Thk Comic Epic Ix Pxosb 

AS IT a pMstble tbc mere Eoglisfa reader maf have a i^f- — ' 
l\ ferent idea of romance with tbe author of these Iktl^ 
-*--*- Tolianes ; and may conseqaenti; expect a kind of enter— 
1 be foraid, nor which was even intended, in - 
die following pages; it may not be improper to premise a 
few words concerning this kind of writing, which I do not re- 
■Bember to bare seen hitherto attempted in our language. 

Tbe EPIC, as well as the DRAU,\, is divided into tragedy 
and comedy. HOMER, who was tbe father of this species 
of poetry, gave us the pattern of both these, tho' that of the 
latter kind is entirely lost; which Aristotle tells us, bore the 
tame relation to comedy which his Iliad bears to tragedy. 
And perhaps, that we have no more instances of it among 
tbe writers of antiquity, is owing to the loss of this great 
pattern, which, had it survived, would have found its imi- 
tators equally with the other poems of this great original. 

And farther, as this poetry may be tragic or comic, I will 
not scruple to say it may be likewise either in verse or prose; 
for tho' it wants one particular, which the critic enumerates 
in the constituent parts of an epic poem, namely, metre; yet, 
when any kind of writing contains all its other parts, sncb 



Rmrr nctdlng. dramatii 




OTclil 


t. and in 


die. wu bor 


n i>eu GUMon- 


burr. SoiMt«l.[ii«, April : 






and died 


at Lirfwn. October 8. i: 


'it 


ThDUtfa 


teldoni tpolun of 




n MjayiM. Fi. 


rfdiog Kalt.^t 


ed tbroogh 


novel. 


> large number oE 


deU 




or detac 




ions wUcb 




«<i««I> 


llr tutft. of wbici 
; Epie in Pro«e," ii 


b Ih. 




:fac« to _ _ . 


■■lo.erh An. 


Jrewi," OB 


tht 


" Comic 








novel wbidi it 


inltodui 


!ct w»» begun u a 






'^''RiJhr"*"' '^'"' 


.rdson'a "Pa 


mela," and 


tb» 


pnrfKe 


(l*e. Fielding-, con, 


:epiii 


>n of 


thlj fotm of fiction. 







TO JOSEPH ANDREWS US 

as fable, action, characters, sentiments, and diction, and U 

deficient in metre only, it seems, I think, reasonable to refer 
it to the epic; at least, as no critic hath thought proper to 
range it under any other bead, nor to assign it a particular 
name to itself. 

Thus the Teleraachus of the archbishop of Cambray ap- 
I>ears to me of the epic kind, as well as the Odyssey of 
Homer; indeed, it is much fairer and more reasonable to give 
it a name common with that species from which it differs 
only in a single instance, than to confound it with those 
which it resembles in no other. Such are those voJuminoua 
worits, commonly called Romances, namely Clelia, Cleopatra, 
Astnea, Cassandra, the Grand Cyrus, and innumerable others 
which contain, as I apprehend, very little instruction or en- 
tertainment. 

Now, a comic romance is a comic epic-poem in prose; 
differing from comedy, as the serious epic from tragedy: its 
action being more extended and comprehensive: containing 
a much larger circle of incidents, and introducing a greater 
variety of characters. It differs from the serious romance in 
its fable and action, in this: that as in the one these are 
grave and solemn, so in the other they are light and ridicu- 
lous; it differs in its characters, by introducing persons of in- 
feriourrank, and consequently of inferiour manners, whereas 
the grave romance sets the highest before us : lastly in its sen- 
timents and diction; by preserving the ludicrous instead of 
*e sublime. In the diction I think, burlesque itself may be 
sometimes admitted ; of which many instances will occur in 
this work, as in the description of the battles, and some other 
places not necessary to be pointed out to the classical reader ; 
for whose entertainment those parodies or burlesque imita- 
tions are chiefly calculated. 

But tho' we have sometimes admitted this in our diction, 
we have carefully excluded it from our sentiments and char- 
acters; for there it is never properly introduced, unless in 
writings of the I ;rlesque kind, which this is not intended to 
be. Indeed, n-" two species of writing can differ more widely 
than the comic and the burlesque : for as the latter is ever the 
exhibition of what is monstrous and unnatural, and where 
.d^ligh^ if we examine it, ariset from the surprising ab- 



^ 



as HEKRT FIKLOrNa 

tnrdity, as In appropriating the manners of the highest tt 
the lowest, or ^ convtrso; so in the former, we should e 
confine ourselves strictly to nature, from the just imitatioB 
of which, will flow all the pleasure we can this way codvi^ 
to a sensible reader. And perhaps, there is one reason, wlq 
a comic writer should of all others be the least excused fol 
deviating from nature, since it may not be always e 
for a serious poet to meet with the great and the admirable 
but hfe everywhere furnishes an accurate observer with tl 
ridiculous. 

I have hinted this little, concerning burlesque; because 1 
have often heard that name given to performances, whii* 
have been truly of the comic kind, from the author's having 
sometimes admitted it in his diction only ; which as it is d 
dress of poetrj-, doth like the dress of men establish charac 
ters, (the one of the whole poem, and the other of the whole 
man), in vulgar opinion, beyond any of their greater excel- 
lences: but surely, a certain drollery in style, where chan^ 
ters and sentiments are perfectly natural, no more constitute! 
the burlesque, than an empty pomp and dignity of word^ 
where everything else is mean and low, can entitle any per* 
formance to the appellation of the true sublime. 

And I apprehend, my Lord Shaftesbury's opinion of inert 
burlesque agrees with mine, when he asserts, " There is a 
such thing to be found in the writings of the antients." But 
perhaps I have less abhorrence than he professes for it;ai>4 
that not because I have had some little success on the «aje 
this way ; hut rather as it contributes more to exquisite mirih- 
and laughter than any other; and these are probably n 
wholesome physic for the mind, and conduce better to purgj 
away spleen, melancholy, and ill affections, than is gen«rallf 
imagined. Nay, I will appeal to common observatioii, 
whether the sanie companies are not found more full of good'- 
humour and benevolence, after they have been sweetened ft 
two or three hours with entertainments of this kind, tha« 
soured by a tragedy or a grave lecture. 

But to illustrate all this by another science, in which, p 
haps, we shall see the distinction more clearly and platalyt 
let us examine the works of a comic hi story -painter, wMl 
those performances which the Italians call Caricat%ra, « 



TO JOSEPH ANDREWS 



187 



n find file greatest wtcellence of the former to consiat 
Sk exactest copy of nature; insomuch, that a judicious 
eye bastantly rejects anything outri; any liberty which 
the painter hath taken with the features of that alpta 
maler. Whereas in the Caricatura we allow all licence. 
Iw aim is to exhibit monsters, not men; and all distor- 
tions and exaggerations whatever are within its proper 
province. 

Now what Caricatura is in painting, Burlesque is in writ- 
ing; and in the same manner the comic writer and painter 
correlate to each other. And here I shall observe, that as in 
the former, the painter seems to have the advantage; so it is 
in the latter infinitely on the side of the writer: for the 
Monstrous is much easier to paint than describe, and tht 
Ridiculous to describe than paint. 

And tho' perhaps this latter species doth not in either 
science so strongly affect and agitate the muscles as the 
Other; yet it will be owned. I believe, that a more rational and 
useful pleasure arises to us from it. He who should call the 
ingenious Hogarth a burlesque painter, would, in my opinion, 
do him very little honour : for sure it is much easier, much 
less the subject of admiration, to paint a man with a nose, or 
any other feature of a preposterous size, or to expose him in 
some absurd or monstrous attitude, than to express the affec- 
tions of men on canvas. It hath been thought a vast com- 
tnendation of a painter to say his figures seetrt to breathe; 
but surely it is a much greater and nobler applause, thai they 
appear to think. 

But to return. The Ridiculous only, as I have before said, 
falls within my province in the present work. Nor will some 
explanation of this wurd be thought impertinent by the 
reader, if he considers how wonderfully it hath been mis- 
taken, even by writers who have profess'd it : for to what but 
luch a mistake, can we attribute the many attempts to ridi- 
cule the blackest villainies; and what is yet worse, the most 
dreadful calamities? What could exceed the absurdity of an 
author, who should write the comedy of Nero, with the 
merry incident of ripping up his mother's belly; or what 
would give a greater shodb to humanity than an attempt to 
e the miseries of poverty and distress to ridicule i And 



HENRY FIELDIKO 

t, the reader will not want much learning to suggest s 
instances to himself. 

Besides, it may seem remarkable, that AristotU, who is SO 
fond and free of definitions, hath not thought proper to de- 
fine the Ridiculous. Indeed, where he tells us it is proper lo 
comedy, he hath remarked that villainy is not its object: but 
that he hath not, as I remember, positively asserted what is. 
Nor doth the Abbe Bellegarde, who hath written a treatise 
on this subject, tho' he shows us many species of it, once 
trace it to its fountain. 

The only source of the true Ridiculous (as it appears to 
mc) is affectation. But tho' it arises from one spring only, , 
when we consider the in&nite streams into which this one s 
branches, we shall presently cease to admire at the copious £ 
field it affords to an observer. Now affectation proceeds ^ 
from one of these two causes; vanity, or hypocrisy: for is^js *' 
vanity puts us on affecting false characters, in order to pur — -xx-U^' 
chase applause; so hypocrisy sets us on an endeavour to«:^j' " 
avoid censure by concealing our vices under an appearances r>«^-ti' 
of their opposite virtues. And tho" these two causes are^-rjs * 
often confounded, (for they require some distinguishing;) (; "^S^S 
yet, as they proceed from very different motives, so they are^-».^ * 
as clearly distinct in their operations: for indeed, the affec — z:>-^lEi 
tation which arises from vanity is nearer to truth than the^rl* 
other; as it hath not that violent repugnancy of nature too* ^' 
struggle with, wtiich that of the hypocrite hath. It may be^^dT "*0 
likewise noted, that affectation doth not imply an absolute^J-C*!*^ 
negation of those qualities which are affected: and there — ^-»^« 
fore, tho', when it proceeds from hypocrisy, ' ' ■..-— — 

lied to deceit; yet when it comes from \ 
takes of the nature of ostentation: for in 
tion of liberality in a vain man, differs visibly from the^srf* 
same affectation in the avaricious; for tho' the vain man issi '^-' 
not what he would appear, or hath not the virtue he affects,.^*^*^ 
to tlie degree he would he thought to have it; yet it sits less^s^**' 
awkwardly on him than on the avaricious man, who is the^*** " 
very reverse of what he would seem to be. 

From the discovery of this affectation arises the Ridicu — k»^^»^ 
lous — which always strikes the reader with surprize 1 '"— 
l>teaiare: and that in a higher and stronger degree when th« 



e anectea: ana mere — =» ■_-— 
ocrisy, it be nearly al — I.^ "^ 
m vanity only, it par — ~*-^*WQ 
r instance, the affetta — .s^*^^* 




TO JOSEPH ANDREWS 

affectation arises from hypocrisy, than when from vanity: 
tor to discover any one to be the exact reverse of what he 
affects, is more surprizing, and consequently more ridiculous, 
than to find him a little deficient in the quality he desires the 
reputation of. 1 might observe that our Ben Jonson, who 
of all men understood the Ridiculous the best, hath chieBy 
used the hypocritical affectation. 

Now from affectation only, the misfortunes and calamities 
of life, or the imperfections of nature, may become the ob- 
jects of ridicule. Surely he hath a very iU-framed mind, who 
can look on ugliness, infirmity, or poverty, as ridiculous in ' 
themselves : nor do I believe any man living who meets a dirty 
fellow riding through the streets in a cart, is struck with an 
idea of the Ridiculous from it; but if he should see the same 
figure descend from his coach and six, or holt from his chair 
with his hat under his arm, he would then begin to laugh, and 
with justice. In the same manner, were we to enter a poor 
bouse and behold a wretched family shivering with cold and 
languishing with hunger, it would not incline us to laughter, 
(at least we must have very diabolical natures, if it would) : 
but should we discover there a grate, instead of coals, adorned 
with flowers, empty plate or china dishes on the side-board, 
or any other affectation of riches and finery either on their 
persons or in their furniture; we might then indeed be ex- 
cused, for ridiculing so fantastical an appearance. Much less 
are natural imperfections the object of derision: but when 
ugliness aims at the applause of beauty, or lameness en- 
deavours to display agility; it is then that these unfortunate 
circumstances, which at first moved our compassion, tend 
only to raise our mirth. 
The poet carries this very far; 



Where if the metre would suffer the word Ridiculous to close 
the first line, the thought would be rather more proper. 
Great vices are tlie proper objects of our detestation, smaller 
faults of our pity: but affectalion appears to me the ouly true 
source of the Ridiculous 
But perhaps it may be objected to me, that I have «^inst 



190 REKRT FIBLDING 

my own rules introduced vices, and of a very black kind in' 
this work. To this I shall answer : First, that it is very diffi 
cult to pursue a series of human actions and keep dear fro; 
them. Secondly, that the vices to be found here, are rath< 
the accidental consequences of some human frailty, or foibl 
than causes habitually existing in the mind. Thirdly, tha 
they are never set forth as the objects of ridicule, but d 
testation. Fourthly, that they are never the principal figur< 
at that time on the scene ; lastly, they never produce the t 
tended eviL 





PREFACE TO THE 
ENGLISH DICTIONARY 

BY SAMUEL JOHNSON (I'/SS) 

IT IS the fate of those who toi'-^t the lower employmentB 
of life, to be rather driven tiy the fear of evil, than at- 
tracted by the prospect of ^ood ; to be exposed to censure, 
without hope of praise; to be disgraced by miscarriage, or 
punished for neglect, wh/'.'e success would have been without 
applause, and diligence wiihout reward. 

Among these unhappy mortals is the writer of diction- 
aries; whom mankind have considered, not as the pupil, but 
the slave of science, the pioneer of literature, doomed only to 
remove rubbish and clear obstructions from the paths 
through which Learning and Genius press forward to con- 
quest and glory, without bestowing a smile on the humble 
drudge that facilitates their progress. Every other author 
may aspire to praise ; the lexicographer can only hope to es- 
cape reproach, and even this negative recompense has been 
yet granted to very few. 

I have, notwithstanding this discouragement, attempted 
a Dictionary of the English Language, which, while it was 
employed in the cultivation of every species of literature, has 
itself been hitherto neglected; suffered to spread, under the 
direction of chance, into wild exuberance; resigned to the 
tyranny of time and fashion ; and exposed to the corruptions 
of ignorance, and caprices of innovation. 

For a Bkcteb of JobniDn's life, Me tbe inlroduction to "Life of Addi- 
tion " in the Tolume ot English Essays. The Interert of bis prefBce ID 
the grot DinioiUTT need liBrdljr be poialcd out, since the work itself li 
s UDdmark in tbe hiitory of our language. The letter to Chc^teriteld, short 
though It is. Is a docnnifnt of ?reat imporUine: In Ihe freeing of Utera- 
tore from patronaBC, and ii in Itself a notable piece of litenlure. The 
pTttaet to JohnKurs edition ot Stakeepeare'e plays not only explains the 
editar'a cooeeptioD of his Xask. but canialns what Is perhaps tbe beet a^ 
preciatioa of tbe diunstiit wrilteo in the eigbieenlh centuij. 




I 



B SAMUEL JOHNSON 

y/iter t took ihe first survey of <n>- undertaking. I found 
6k;-.r sp«*" copious withom order, and energetic without rule: 
whivrever ' turned niy view, there was perplexity to be dis- 
entant,'[e<I a°^ confusion to be regulated; choice was to b« 
made oi-'t of boundless variety, without any established prin- 
ciple of soJeciion; adulterations were to be detected, withoot 
a settled te.st of purity; and modes of expression to be r^ 
jected or received, without the suffrages of any writers of 
classical reputat.ion or acknowledged authority. 

Having therefoi^ "o assistance but from general grammar, 
I applied myself to tbi; oerusal of our writers; and noting 
whatever might be of use to ascertain or illustrate any 
word or phrase, accumulated iti time the materials of a dic- 
tionary, which, by degrees, I reduced to method, establishing 
to myself, in the progress of thp work, such as experi- 
ence and analogy suggested to me'.Texperience, which prac- 
tice and observation were continually increasing; and anal- 
ogy, which, though in some words obscure, was evident 
in others. 

In adjusting the Orthography, which has been to this 
time unsettled and fortuitous, I found it necessary to dis- 
tinguish those irregularities that are inherent in our tongue, 
and perhaps coeval with it, from others which the ignorance 
or negligence of later writers has produced. Every lan- 
guage has its anomalies, which though inconvenient, and in 
themselves once unnecessary, must be tolerated among ihc 
imperfections of human things, and which require only to 
be registered, that they may not be increased ; and ascer- 
tained, that they may not be confounded: but every language 
has likewise its improprieties and absurdities, which it i: 
duty of the lexicographer to correct or proscribe. 

As language was at its beginning merely oral, all w 
of necessary or common use were spoken before they werC'i 
written ; and while they were unfixed by any visible siga^~^ 
must have been spoken with great diversity, as we now oM 
serve those who cannot read to catch sounds imperfectly, ani 
utter them negligently. When this wild and barbarool 
jargon was first reduced to an al^^babet, every penman e 
deavored to express, as he could, the sounds which he was ai 
1 to pronounce or to receive, and vitiated in writil 



TO THE DICnONART 193 

**»<;h words as were already vitiated in speech. The powers of 
tirx^ iellers, when they were applied to a new language, must 
^^ve been vague and unsettled, and therefore different hands 
^v-ould exhibit the same sound by different combinations. 

From this imcertain pronunciation arise in a great part the 
^'■^rious dialects of the same country, which will always be 
■^liserved to grow fewer, and less different, as books are 
*^*=»ultiplie(]; and from this arbitrary representation of sounds 
»>3f letters proceeds that diversity of spelling observable in 
^'^e Saxon remains, and I suppose in the first books of every 
■Nation, which perplexes or destroys analogy, and produce! 
^*.»iomalous formations, which, being once incorporated can 
*^«ver be afterward dismissed or reformed. 

Of this kind are the derivatives length from /o«p, strength 
"^rotn strong, darling from dear, breadth from broad, from 
<^ry, drought, and from high, height, which Milton, in zeal 
■^«r analogy, writes highth. ' Quid te exempta juvat spinis 
^3e plnribus una?' To change all would be too much, and to 
*^hange one is nothing. 

This uncertainty is most frequent in the vowels, which are 
^o capriciously pronounced, and so differentiy modified, by 
accident or affectation, not only in every province, but in 
^very mouth, that to them, as is well known to etymologists, 
kittle regard is to be shown in the deduction of one language 
Jrom another. 

Such defects are not errors in orthography, but spots of 
larbarity impressed so deep in the English language, that 
criticism can never wash them away: these, therefore, must 
"be permitted to remain untouched ; but many words have like- 
wise been altered by accident, or depraved by ignorance, as 
the pronunciation of the vulgar has been weakly followed; 
and some still continue to be variously written, as authors 
difl'er in their care or skill : of these it was proper to inquire 
the true orthography, which I have always considered as 
depending on their derivation, and have therefore referred 
them to their original languages ; thus I write enchant, en- 
chantment. enchanter, after the French, and incanlalio'n 
after the Latin ; thus entire is chosen rather than intire, be- 
cause it passed to us not from the Latin integer, but from 
B ie Fremch entier. 
^^■r [T) BC— Vol. s» 



m 



nuiciL ronKsoK 



^ 



Of many words it is difficult to say whether they n 
fmmediately received from the Latin or the French, since a 
the time when we had dominions in France, we had Lalii 
service in our churches. It is, however, my opinion t 
the French generally supplied us; for we have few Latin 
words, among the terms of domestic use, which are M 
French; but many French, which are very remote froi 
Latin. 

Even in words of which the derivation is apparent, I bav 
been often obliged to sacrifice uniformity to custom; thu 
I write, in compliance with a numberless majority, coK«t_ 
and inveigh, deceit and receipt, fancy and phantom; soiM 
times the derivative varies from the primitive, US esplak 
and explanation, repeat and repetition. 

Some combinations of letters having the same power, t 
used indifferently without any discoverable reason of cboic^ 
as in choak, choke; soap, sope; fetuei, fuel, and many olberi; 
which I have sometimes inserted twice, that those who seard) 
for them under either form, may not search in vain. 

In examining the orthography of any doubtful word, It 
mode of spelling by which it is inserted in the scries of tt 
dictionary, is to be considered as that to which I give, pe 
haps not often rashly, the preference, 1 have left, in tl 
examples, to every author his own practice unmoleited, thl 
the reader may balance suffrages, and judge between Oi 
but this question is not always to be determined by repuia 
or by real learning; some men, intent upon greater things 
have thought little on sounds and derivations; some, knoff 
ing in the ancient tongues, have neglected those in which di 
words are commonly to be sought. Thus Hammond t 
fecibleness for feasibleness, because I suppose he ima^e 
it derived immediately from the Latin; and some word! 
such as dependant, dependent ; dependance, dependence, vai 
their final syllable, as one or other language is present to ll 
writer. 

In this part of the work, where caprice has long wantone 
without control, and vanity sought praise by petty reform* 
tion, I have endeavored to proceed with a scholar's revereni 
for antiquity, and a grammarian's regard to the genius ot W 
tongue. I have attempted few alterations, and among tfau 



TO THE DICTIONARY 

fcw, perhaps the greater part is from the modern to the 
ancient practice; and I hope I may be allowed to recommend 
to those, whose thoughts have been perhaps employed too 
anxiously on verba! singularities, not to disturb, upon nar- 
row views, or for minute propriety, the orthography of their 
fathers. It has been asserted, that for the law to be known, 
h of more importance than to be right. ' Change,' says 
Hooker, ' is not made without inconvenience, even from 
worse to better.' There is in constancy and stability a gen- 
eral and lasting advantage, which will always overbalance 
the slow improvementB of gradual correction. Much lets 
ought our written language to comply with the corruptions 
of oral utterance, or copy that which every variation of 
time or place makes different from itself, and imitate those 
changes, which will again be changed, while imitation is 
employed in observing them. 

This recommendation of steadiness and uniformity does 
not proceed from an opinion that particular combinations of 
letters have much influence on human happiness; or that 
truth may not be successfully taught by modes of spelling 
fanciful and erroneous ; I am not yet so lost in lexicography 
as to forget that 'words are the daughters of earth, and 
that things are the sons of heaven.' Language is only the 
instrument of science, and words are but the signs of ideas; 
I vriah, however, that the instrument might be less apt to 
decay, and that signs might be permanent, like the things 
which they denote. 

In settling the orthography, I have not wholly neglected 
the pronunciation, which I have directed, by printing an ac- 
cent upon the acute or elevated syllable. It will sometimes 
be found that the accent is placed by the author quoted, on 
a different syllable from that marked in the alphabetical 
eeriea; it is then to be understood, that custom has varied, 
or that the author has, in my opinion, pronounced wrong. 
Short directions are sometimes given where the sound of 
letters is irregular; and if they are sometimes omitted, defect 
in such minute observations will be more easily excused, than 
auperfluity. 

In the investigation, both of the orthography and signifi- 
ution of words, their Etymology was necessarily to be £«• 



SAMUEL JOHNSON 

sidered, and they were therefore to be divided into primitives 
and derivatives. A primitive word is that which can 
traced no further to any English root; thus circumspect, 
circuinveMl, circumstance, delude, concave, and complicate, 
though compounds in the Latin, are to us primitives. De- 
rivatives, are all those that can be referred to any word in 
English of greater simplicity. 

The derivatives I have referred to their primitives, with 
an accuracy sometimes needless ; for who does not see tbat 
remoteness comes from remote, lovely from love, concavity 
from concave, and demonstrative from demonstrate? But 
this grammatical exuberance the scheme of my work did not 
allow me to repress. It is of great importance, in examin- 
ing the general fabric of a language, to trace one word from 
another, by noting the usual modes of derivation and inflec- 
tion; and uniformity must be preserved in systematical 
works; though sometimes at the expense of particular 
propriety. 

Among other derivatives I have been careful to insert 
and elucidate the anomalous plurals of nouns and preterites 
of verbs, which in the Teutonic dialects are very frequent, 
and, though familiar to those who have always used them, 
interrupt and embarrass the learners of our language. 

The two languages from which our primitives have been 
derived, are the Roman and Teutonic: under the Roman, 1 
comprehend the French and provincial tongues; and under 
the Teutonic, range the Saxon, German, and all their kindred 
dialects. Most of our polysyllables are Roman, and our 
words of one syllable are very often Teutonic. 

In assigning the Roman original, it has perhaps soi 
times happened that I have mentioned only the Latin, when 
the word was borrowed from the French; and considering 
myself as employed only in the illustration of my □ 
language, I have not been very careful to observe whether 
the Latin would be pure or barbarous, or the French elegant 
or obsolete. 

For the Teutonic et)Tnologies, I am commonly indebted to 
Junius and Skinner, the only names which I have forborne 
to quote when I copied their books ; not that I might appro- 
priate their labors or usurp their honors, but that I mi^it 



TO THE DICTIOKAKT 197 

spare perpetual repetition by one general acknowledgment. 
Of these, whom I ought not to mention but with the rever- 
ence due to instructors and benefactors, Junius appears to 
have excelled in extent of learning, and Skinner in recti- 
tude of understanding. Junius was accurately skilled in all 
the northern languages, Skinner probably examined the 
ancient and remoter dialects only by occasional inspection 
into dictionaries; but the learning of Junius is often of no 
other use than to show him a track by which he may deviate 
from his purpose, to which Skinner always presses forward 
by the shortest way. Skinner is often ignorant, but never 
ridiculous: Junius is always full of knowledge; but his 
variety distracts his judgment, and his learning is very 
frequently disgraced by his absurdities. 

The votaries of the northern muses will not perhaps 
easily restrain their indignation, when they find the name 
of Junius thus degraded by a disadvantageous comparison; 
but whatever reverence is due to his diligence, or his attain- 
ments, it can be no criminal degree of censoriousness to 
charge that etymologist with want of judgment, who can 
seriously derive dream from drama, because 'life is a 
drama and a drama is a dream'; and who declares with a 
tone of defiance, that no man can fail to derive moan from 
fi6viii, monos, single or solitary, who considers that grief 
naturally loves to be alone. 

Our knowledge of the northern literature is so scanty, 
that of words undoubtedly Teutonic, the original is not 
always to be found in an ancient language; and I have 
therefore inserted Dutch or German substitutes, which I 
consider not as radical, but parallel, not as the parents, but 
sisters of the English. 

The words which are represented as thus related by 
descent or cognation, do not always agree in sense; for it 
is incident to words, as to their authors, to degenerate from 
their ancestors, and to change their manners when they 
change their country. It is sufficient, in etymological in- 
quiries, if the senses of kindred words be found such as 
may easily pass into each other, or such as may both be 
referred to one general idea. 

The etymology, so far as it is yet known, was easily found 



SAHUBL Jt}HN90N 

ib the volumes, where it is particularly and professedly c3^ 
livered; and, by proper attention to the rules of derivatio*^ 
the orthography was soon adjusted. But to collect t:hb 
woiiis of our language was a task of greater difficulty: the 
deficiency of dictionaries was immediately apparent; and 
when liiey were exhausted, what was yet wanting must T 
sougtit by fortuitous and unguided excursions into boolo 
and gleaned as industry should find, or chance should offef 
it. in the boundless chaos of a living speech. My seard^ 
however, has been either skilful or lucky; for I have much 
augmented the vocabulary. 

As my design was a dictionary, common or appellative, I 
have omitted all words which have relation to proper names; 
such as Arian, Soanian, CaMnisl, Benedictine, MahomelaHi 
but have retained those of a more general nature, i 
Heathen, Pagan. 

Of the terms of art I have received such as could 1 
found either in books of science or technical dictionaries} 
and have often inserted, from philosophical writerB, word( 
which are supported perhaps only by a single authority, ul4 
which, being not admitted into general use, stand yet as c 
didates or probationers, and must depend for their adoptica 
on the suffrage of futurity. The words which our authort 
have introduced by their knowledge of foreign languages, a 
ignorance of their own, by vanity or wantonness, by ( 
pliance with fashion or lust of innovation, I have registered 
as they occurred, though commonly only to censure thed^ 
and warn others against the folly of naturalizing uselees for* 
eigncrs to the injury of the natives, 

I have not rejected any by design, merely because thq 
were unnecessary or exuberant; but have received thoU 
which by different writers have been differently formed, a! 
viscid, and viscidity, viscous, and viscosity. 

Compounded or double words I have seldom noted, excep 
when they obtain a signification different from that whtdl 
the components have in their simple state. 

Thus highvrayman, woodman, and horsecourser, require 
an explanation; but of tkiefiike; or coachdriver, no notid 
was needed, because the primitives contain the meaaing c 
tht compounds. 




TO THE DICTIONARY UO 

Words arbitrarily formed by a constant and settled 
■analogy, like diminutive adjectives in ish, as greenish, 
bluish; adverbs in ly, aa duUy, openly; substantives in ness, 
as vileness, faulliness; were less diligently sought, and many 
sometimes have been omitted, when I had no authority that 
invited me to insert them; not that they are not genuine, and 
regular offsprings of English roots, but because their relation 
to the primitive being always the same, their signification 
cannot be mistaken. 

The verbal nouns in iug, such as the keeping of the castle, 
the leading of the army, are always neglected, or placed only 
to illustrate the sense of the verb, except when they signify 
things as well as actions, and have therefore a plural num- 

I ber, as dwelling, living; or have an absolute and abstract 

j signification, as caloririg, painting, learning. 

I The participles are likewise omitted, unless, by signifying 

I rather habit or quality than action, they take the nature of 
adjectives; as a thinking man, a man of prudence; a pacing 

] horse, a horse that can pacer these I have ventured to call 
participial adjectives. But neither are these always inserted, 
because they are commonly to be understood without any 

I danger of mistake, by consulting the verb. 

Obsolete words are admitted when they are found in 

I anthors not obsolete, or when they have any force or beauty 
tliat mpy deserve revival. 

As composition is one of the chief characteristics of S 
language, I have endeavored to make some reparation for 
the universal negligence of my predecessors, by inserting 
great numbers of compounded words, as may be found un- 
der after, fore, new, night, fair, and many more. These, 
numerous as they are, might be multiplied, but that use and 
curiosity are here satisfied, and the frame of our language 
and modes of our combination amply discovered. 

i Of some forms of composition, such as that by which re 

ia prefixed to note repetition, and «n to signify contrariety or 
privation, all the examples cannot be accumulated, because 
the use of these particles, if not wholly arbitrary, is so little 
tiniited, that they are hourly affixed to new words as occasion 
tequires, or is imagined to require them. 

^^^Xbcre is another kind of composition more frequent in 



' 200 



SAMimL JOHNSON 



^ 



our language than perhaps in any other, from which arises 
to foreigners ihc greatest difficulty. We modify the signi- 
fication of many verbs by a particle subjoined; as to 
off, to escape by a fetch ; to fail on, to attack : fall og, to 
apostatize; to break off, to stop abruptly; to bear out, to 
jtjstify; lo fall in, to comply; to give over, lo cease; t 
off, to embellish; to set in, to begin a continual tenor; to tet 
out, to begin a course or journey ; to lake off, to copy ; with 
innumerable expressions of the same kind, of which soma 
appear wildly irregular, being so far distant from the s 
of the simple words, that no sagacity will be able to trace 
the steps by which they arrived at the present use. These 1 
have noted with great care ; and though I cannot flatter my- 
self that the collection is complete, I believe I have so far 
assisted the students of our language that this kind of phrase- 
ology will be no longer insuperable; and the combinations 
of verbs and particles, by chance omitted, will be easily ex- 
plained by comparison with those that may be foimd. 

Many words yet stand supported only by the name of. 
Bailey, Ainsworth, Philips, or the contracted Did. for Die* 
lionaries, subjoined; of these I am not always certain that 
they are read in any book but the works of lexicographers* 
Of such I have omitted many, because I had never 
them; and many I have inserted, because they may perhaps 
exist, though they have escaped my notice: they are, how- 
ever, to be yet considered as resting only upon the credit of 
former dictionaries. Others, which I considered as useful, or 
know to be proper, though I could not at present support 
them by authorities, I have suffered to stand upon my own 
attestation, claiming the same privilege with my predeces-. 
sors, of being sometimes credited without proof. 

The words, thus selected and disposed, are grammatically 
considered; they are referred to the different parts of speech; 
traced when they are irregularly inflected, through their 
various terminations; and illustrated by observations, not 
indeed of great or striking importance, separately considered, 
but necessary to the elucidation of our language, and hitherto 
neglected or forgotten by English grammarians. 

That part of my work on which I exoect malignity most 
frequently to fasten, is the exflakatioh ; in which I cannot 



TO THE DICTIONAHT 



^^^P^te to satisfy those, who are perhaps not inclined to be 
^^^^leased, since I have not always been able to satisfy myself. 
To interpret a language by itself is very difficult ; many words 
cannot be explained by synonimes, because the idea signi- 
fied by them has not more than one appellation ; nor by par- 
aphrase, because simple ideas cannot be described. When 
the nature of things is unknown, or the notion unsettled and 
indefinite, and various in various minds, the words by which 
such notions are conveyed, or such things denoted, will be 
ambiguous and perplexed. And such is the fate of hapless 
lexicography, that not only darkness, but light impedes and 
distresses it; things may be not only too little, but too much 
known, to be happily illustrated. To explain, requires the 
use of terms less abstruse than that which is to be explained, 
and such terras cannot always be found; for as nothing can 
be proved but by supposing something intuitively known, 
and evident without proof, so nothing can be defined but by 
the use of words too plain to admit a definition. 

Other words there are, of which the sense is too subtle 
and evanescent to be fixed in a paraphrase ; such are all those 
which arc by the grammarians termed expletives, and, in 
dead languages, are suffered to pass for empty sounds, of no 
Other use than to fill a verse, or to modulate a period, but 
which are easily perceived in living tongues to have power 
and emphasis, though it be sometimes such as no other form 
of expression can convey. 

My labor has likewise been much increased by a class 
o! verbs too frequent in the English language, of which 
the signification is so loose and general, the use so vague 
and indeterminate, and the senses detorted so widely from 
the first idea, that it is hard to trace them through the 
maze of variation, to catch them on the brink of utter 
inanity, to circumscribe them by any limitations, or in- 
terpret them by any words of distinct and settled mean- 
ing ; such are bear, break, come, cast, full, get, give, do, put, 
let, go, ruK. make, take, turn, throw. If of these the 
whole power is not accurately delivered, it must be re- 
membered, that while our language is yet living, and vari- 
able by the caprice of every one that speaks it, these words 
are hourly shifting their relations, and can no more be as- 



eertained in « dictionary, than a grove, in the agltatioa 
of a storm, can be accurately delineated from ita picture 
in the water. 

The particles are among all nations applied with so great 
latitude, that they are not easily reducible under any regular 
scheme of explication: this difficulty is not less, nor per- 
haps greater, in English, than in odier languages, I have 
labored them with diligence, I hope with success; such at 
least as can be expected in a task, which no man, however 
learned or sagacious, has yet been able to perform. 

Some words there are which I cannot explain, because 
I do not understand them ; these might have been omitted 
very often with little inconvenience, but I would not so 
far indulge my vanity as to decline this confession : for 
when Tully owns himself ignorant whether lesats, in the 
twelve tables, means a funeral song, or tnottrning gartntnt; 
and Aristotle doubts whether oiipcuv in the Iliad signifies 
a mule, or muleteer, I may surely without shame, leave 
some obscurities to happier industry, or future information. 

The rigor of interpretative lexicography requires that 
tke explanation, and the word explained should be always 
reciprocal; this I have always endeavoured, but could not 
always attain. Words arc seldom exactly synonymous; a 
new term was not introduced, but because the former was 
thought inadequate: names, therefore, have often many 
ideas, but few ideas have many names. It was then neces- 
sary to use the proximate word, for the deficiency of 
single terms can very seldom be supplied by circumlocu- 
tion; nor is the inconvenience great of such mutilated in- 
terpretations, because the sense may easily be collected 
entire from the examples. 

In every word of extensive use, it was requisite to mark 
the progress of its meaning, and show by what grada- 
tions of intermediate sense it has passed from its primitive 
to its remote and accidental signification; so that every 
foregoing explanation should tend to that which follows, 
and the series be regularly concatenated from the first 
notion to the last. 

This is specious, but not always practicable; kindred 
■enses may be so interwoven, that the perplexity caooot 






TO THE DlCnOKART 108 

he disentangled, nor any reason be assigned why one should 
be ranged before the other. When the radical idea branchei 
out into parallel ramifications, how can a consecutive series 
be formed of senses in their nature collateral ? The shades 
of meaning sometimes pass imperceptibly into each other, 
so that though on one side they apparently differ, yet it 
is impossible to mark the point of contact. Ideas of the 
same race, though not exactly alike, are sometimes so little 
different, that no words can express the dissimilitude, though 
the mind easily perceives it when they are exhibited to- 
gether; and sometimes there is such a confusion of ac> 
ceptations, that discernment is wearied and distinction put- 
zled, and perseverance herself hurries to an end, by crowd- 
ing together what she cannot separate. 

These complaints of difhculty will, by those that have 
never considered words beyond their popular use, be thought 
only the jargon of a man willing to magnify his labors, and 
procure veneration to his studies by involution and obscurity. 
But every art is obscure to those that have not learned it; 
this uncertainty of terms, and commixture of ideas, is well 
known to those who have joined philosophy with grammar; 
and if I have not expressed them very clearly, it must be 
remembered that I am speaking of that which words are 
insufficient to explain. 

The original sense of words is often driven out of use 
by their metaphorical acceptations, yet must he inserted for 
the sake of a regular origination. Thus I know not whether 
ardor is used for material heat, or whether flagrant, in &l- 
glish, ever signifies the same with burning; yet such are the 
primitive ideas of these words, which are therefore set 
first, though without examples, that the figurative senses 
may be commodiously deduced. 

Such is the exuberance of signification which many words 
have obtained, that it was scarcely possible to collect all 
their senses ; sometimes the meaning of derivatives must 
be sought in the mother term, and sometimes deficient ex- 
planations of the primitive may be supplied in the train 
of derivation. In any case of doubt or difficulty, it will 
be always proper to examine all the words of the same race; 
lor some words are slightly passed over to avoid repetition. 



SAMUEL JOHNSON 

some admitted easier and clearer explanation than others, 
and all will be better understood, as they are considered 
in greater variety of structures and relations. 

All the interpretations of words are nol written with the 
same skill, or the same happiness: things equally easy in 
themselves, are not all equally easy to any single mind. 
Every writer of a long word commits errors, where there 
appears neither ambiguity to mislead, nor obscurity to con- 
found him; and in a search like this, many felicities of ex- 
pression will be casually overlooked, many convenient paral- 
lels will be forgotten, and many particulars will admit im- 
provement from a mind utterly unequal to the wliole per- 
formance. 

But many seeming faults are to be imputed rather to the 
nature of the undertaking, than the negligence of the per- 
former. Thus some explanations are unavoidably reciprocal 
or circular, as hind, the female of the stag; Jtag, the male of 
the kind: sometimes easier words arc changed into harder, 
as burial into sepulture, or interment, drier into desiccative. 
dryness into siccity or aridity, fit into paroxysm; for the 
easiest word, whatever it be, can never be translated into 
one more easy. But easiness and difficulty are merely rel- 
ative; and if the present prevalence of our language should 
invite foreigners to this Dictionary, many will be assisted 
by (hose words which now seem only to increase or produce 
obscurity. For this reason I have endeavoured frequently 
to join a Teutonic and Roman interpretation, as to cheer, 
to gladden or exhilarate, that every learner of English may 
be assisted by his own tongue. 

The solution of all difficulties, and the supply of all de- 
fects must be sought in the examples, subjoined to the vari- 
ous senses of each word, and ranged according to the time 
of their authors. 

When I first collected these authorities, I was desirous 
that every quotation should be useful to some other end 
than the illustration of a word; I therefore extracted from 
philosophers principles of science; from historians remark- 
able facts ; from chymists complete processes ; from divines 
striking exhortations; and from poets beautiful descriptions. 
Such is design, while it is yet at a distance from execution. 



TO THE DICTIONARY 305 

When the time called upon me to range this accumulation 
of elegance and wisdom into an alphabetical scries, I soon 
discovered that the bulk of my volumes would fright away 
the student, and was forced to depart from my scheme of 
including all that was pleasing or useful in English litera- 
ture, and reduce my transcripts very often to clusters of 
words, in which scarcely any meaning is retained; thus to 
the weariness of copying, I was condemned to add the vexa- 
tion of expunging. Some passages I have yet spared, which 
may relieve the labor of verbal searches, and intersperse 
with verdure and flowers the dusty desarts of barren 
philology. 

The examples, thus mutilated, are no longer to be con- 
sidered as conveying the sentiments or doctrine of their 
authors; the word for the sake of which they are inserted, 
with all its appendant clauses, has been carefully preserved; 
Jmt it may sometimes happen, by hasty detruncation, that 
the general tendency of the sentence may be changed: the 
divine may desert his tenets, or the philosopher his system. 

Some of the examples have been taken from writers who 
were never mentioned as masters of elegance, or models of 
style; but words must be sought where they are used; and in 
what pages, eminent for purity, can terms of manufacture or 
agriculture be found? Many quotations serve no other pur- 
pose than that of proving the bare existence of words, and are 
therefore selected with less scrupulousness than those which 
are to teach their structures and relations. 

My purpose was to admit no testimony of living authors, 
that I might not he misled by partiality, and that none of 
my contemporaries might have reason to complain; nor 
have I departed from tliis resolution, but when some per- 
formance of uncommon excellence excited my veneration, 
when my memory supplied me, from late books, with an 
example that was wanting, or when my heart, in the tender- 
ness of friendship, solicited admission for a favorite name. 

So far have I been from any care to grace my pages with 
modern decorations, that I have studiously endeavored to 
collect examples and authorities from the writers before 
the Restoration, whose works I regard as the 'wells of En- 
glish undefiled,' as the pure sources of genuine diction. Our 



, JOHNSON 

language, for almost a century, has, by the concurrence ol 
inany causes, been gradually departing from its original 
Teutonic character and deviating towards a Gallic structure 
and phraseology, from which it ought to be our endeavor 
to recall it, by making our ancient volumcB the ground- 
work of style, admitting among the additions of later times, 
only such as may supply real deficiencies, such as are readily 
adopted by the genius of our tongue, and incorporate easily 
with our native idioms. 

But as every language has a time of rudeness antecedent 
to perfection, as well as of false refinement and declension, 
I have been cautious lest my zeal for antiquity might drive 
me into times too remote, and crowd my book with words 
now no longer understood. I have fixed Sidney's work 
for the boundary, beyond which I make few excursions, 
From the authors which rose in the time of Eliiabeth, a 
speech might be formed adequate to all the purposes of use 
and elegance. If the language of theology were extracted 
from Hooker and the translation of the Bible; the terms 
of natural knowledge from Bacon; the phrases of policy, 
war, and navigation from Raleigh; the dialect of poetry 
and fiction from Spenser and Sidney; and the diction of 
common life from Shakespeare, few ideas would be lost 
to mankind, for want of English words in which they might 
be expressed. 

It is not sufficient that a vrord is found, unless it be so 
combined as that its meaning is apparently determined by 
the tract and lenor of the sentence; such passages I have 
therefore chosen, and when it happened that any author 
gave a definition of a term, or such an explanation as ia 
equivalent to a definition. I have placed his authority as a 
supplement to my own, without regard to the chronological 
order that is otherwise observed. 

Some words, indeed, stand unsupported by any authority, 
but they are commonly derivative nouns or adverbs, formed 
from their primitives by regular and constant analogy, or 
names of things seldom occurring in books, or words of 
which I have reason to doubt the existence. 

There fs more danger of censure from the multiplicity 
than paucity of examples; authorities will sometimes leeni 



to kive b«en accumulated without necessity or use, and per- 
haps some will be found, which might, without loss, have 
been omitted. But a work of this kind is not hastily to be 
charged with superfluitiea; tbose quotations, which to care- 
less or unskillful perusers appear only to repeat the same 
saise, will often exhibit, to a more accurate examiner, 
diversities of signification, or, at least, afford different 
shades of the same meaning: one will show the word ap- 
plied to persons, another to things; one will express an ill, 
another a good, and a third a neutral sense; one will prove 
the expression genuine from an ancient author; another will 
show it elegant from a modern: a doubtful authority is 
corroborated by another of more credit; an ambiguous sen- 
tence is ascertained by a passage clear and determinate: the 
word, how often soever repeated, appears with new as- 
sociates and in different combinations, and every quotation 
contributes something to the stability or enlargement of the 
language. 

When words are used equivocally, I receive them in 
either sense; when they are metaphorical, I adopt them in 
their primitive acceptation. 

I have sometimes, though rarely, yielded to the temptation 
of exhibiting a genealogy of sentiments, by showing how 
one author copied the thoughts and diction of another; such 
quotations are indeed little more than repetitions, which 
might justly be censured, did they not gratify the mind, 
by affording a kind of intellectual history. 

The various syntactical structures occurring in the ex- 
amples have been carefully noted; the license or negligence 
with which many words have been hitherto used, has made 
our style capricious and indeterminate; when the different 
combinations of the same word are exhibited together, the 
preference is readily given to propriety, and I ha\'e often 
endeavored to direct the choice. 

Thus have I labored by settling the orthography, display- 
ing the analogy, regulating the structures, and ascertaining 
the signification of English words, to perform all the parts 
of a faithful lexicographer: but I have not always executed 
my own scheme, or satisfied my own expectations. The 
work, whatever proofs of diligence and attention it may ex- 



SAMUEL JOHNSON 

hibit, is yet capable of many improvements: the ortliography 
wbich I recommend is stUI controvertible; the etymology 
which 1 adopt is uncertain, and perhaps frequently er- 
roneous; the explanations are sometimes too much con- 
tracted, and sometimes too much diffused, the significations 
are distinguished rather with subtlety than skill, and the at- 
tention is harassed with unnecessary minuteness. 

The examples are too often injudiciously truncated, and 
perhaps sometimes — I hope very rarely — alleged in a mis- 
taken sense; for in making this collection I trusted more 
to memory, than, in a state of disquiet and embarrassment, 
memory can contain, and purposed to supply at the review 
what was left incomplete in the first transcription. 

Many terms appropriated to particular occupations, though 
necessary and significant, are undoubtedly omitted ; and of 
the woris most studiously considered and exemplified, many 
senses have escaped observation. 

Yet these failures, however frequent, may admit extenua- 
tion and apology. To have attempted much is always laud- 
able, even when the enterprise is above the strength that 
undertakes it: to rest below his own aim is incident to 
every one whose fancy is active, and whose views are com- 
prehensive; nor is any man satisfied with himself because 
he has done much, hut because he can conceive little. When 
first I engaged in this work, I resolved to leave neither 
words nor things unexamined, and pleased myself with a 
prospect of the hours which I should revel away in feasts 
of literature, the obscure recesses of northern learning 
which I should enter and ransack, the treasures with which 
I expected every search into those neglected mines (o re- 
ward my labor, and the triumph with which I should display 
my acquisitions to mankind. When I had thus inquired into 
' the original of words, I resolved to show likewise my atten- 
tion to things; to pierce deep into every science, to inquire 
the nature of every substance of which I inserted the name, 
to limit every idea by a definition strictly logical, and ex- 
hibit every production of art or nature in an accurate de- 
scription, that my book might be in place of all other 
dictionaries whether appellative or technical. But these 
were the dreams of a poet doomed at last to wake a 



\ . 






i 




TO THE DICTTONART 

Imkogrspher. I soon found that it is too late to look for 
inslr-unetits, when the work calls for execution, and that 
whatever abilities I had brought to my task, with those I 
must finally perform it To deliberate whenever I doubted, 
to inquire whenever 1 was ignorant, would have protracted 
the undertaking without end, and, perhaps, without much 
improvemeot ; for I did not find by my first experiments, 
that what I had not of my own was easily to be obtained: 
I saw tliat one inquiry only gave occasion to another, that 
book referred to book, that to search was not always to find, 
and to find was not always to be informed; and that thus 
to pursue perfection, was, like the first inhabitants of Ar- 
cadia, to chase the sun, which, when they had reached the 
hill where he seemed to rest, was still beheld at the same 
distance from them. 

I then contracted my design, determining to confide in 
myself, and no longer to solicit auxiliaries which produced 
more incumbrance than assistance ; by this I obtained at 
least one advaniage, that I set limits to my work, which 
would in time be ended, though not completed. 

Despondency has never so far prevailed as to depress me 
to negligence; some faults will at last appear to be the 
effects of anxious diligence and persevering activity. The 
nice and subtle ramifications of meaning were not easily 
avoided by a mind intent upon accuracy, and convinced of 
the necessity of disentangling combinations, and separating 
similitudes. Many of the distinctions which to common 
readers appear useless and idle, will be found real and im- 
portant by men versed in the school philosophy, without 
which no dictionary can ever be accurately compiled, or 
skillfully examined. 

Some senses, however, there are, which, though not the 
same, are yet so nearly allied, that they are often con- 
founded. Most men think indistinctly, and therefore can- 
not speak with exactness ; and consequently some examples 
might be indifferently put to either signification: this un- 
certainty is not to be imputed to me, who do not forra, but 
register the language; who do not teach men how they 
should think, but relate how they have hitherto expressed 
their thoughts. 




8AUUEL JOHNSON 



N 
N 



The imperfect sense of some examples I Tamentei]. fcutJ 
could not remedy, and hope they will be compensated bjM 
innumerable passages selected with propriety, and preserved^ 
with exactness; some shining with sparks of imagiiiatii)il,>I 
and some replete with treasures of wisdom. 

The orthography and etymology, though imperfect, are 1 
not imperfect for want of care, but because care wiU not 
always be successful, and recollection or information come 
too late for use. 

That many terms of art and manufacture are omitted, 
must he frankly acknowledged; but for this defect I way 
boldly allege that it is unavoidable; I could not visit cavems,' 
to learn the miner's language, nor take a voyage to perfect 
my skill in the dialect of navigation, nor visit the ware* 
houses of merchants, and shops of artificers, to gain th| 
names of wares, tools, and operations, of which no meatimi 
is found in books; what favorable accident or easy inquiry 
brought within my reach, has not been neglected; but it 
had been a hopeless labor to glean up words, by courtin* 
living information, and contesting with the sullenness o: 
one, and the roughness of another. 

To furnish the Academicians delta Cruica with words of 
this kind, a series of comedies called La Fiera, or The Pair, 
was professedly written by Buonaroti; but 1 had no s 
assistant, and therefore was content to want what the] 
must have wanted likewise, had they not luckily been ; 
supplied. 

Nor arc all words which are not found in the vacKba 
lary, to be lamented as omissions. Of the laborious aiu 
mercantile part of the people, the diction is in a gre4( 
measure casual and mutable; many of their terms 
formed tor some temporay or local convenience, and thou^ 
current at certain times and places, are in others utterly 
unknown. This fugitive cant, which is always in a 
of increase or decay, cannot be regarded as any part of lh5 
durable materials of a language, and therefore must bfl 
STiffered to perish with other things unworthy of preser> 
valion. 

Care will sometimes betray to the appearance of negll* 
gence. He that is catching opportunities which sddga| 



TO THE DICTIONARY tit 

, will sufifer those to pass by unregarded, which he 
CxpeciB hourly to return; he that is searching for rare and 
remote things, will neglect those that arc obvious and fa- 
miliar : thus many of the most common and cursory words 
have been inserted with little illustration, because in gath- 
ering the authorities, I forebore to copy those which I 
thought likely to occur whenever they were wanted, It is 
remarkable that, in reviewing my collection, I found the 
word sea unexemplified. 

Thus it happens, that in things difficult there is danger 
from ignorance, and in things easy, from confidence ; ths 
mind, afraid of greatness, and disdainful of littlenesi, 
hastily withdraws herself from painful searches, and passes 
with scornful rapidity over tasks not adequate to her pow- 
*rs ; sometimes too secure for caution, and again too anxious 
for vigorous effort; sometimes idle in a plain path, and 
sometimes distracted In labyrinths, and dissipated by dif- 
fercnt intentions. 

A large work is difficult because it is large, even though 
%ll its parts might singly be performed with facility; wher« 
Uierc are many things to be done, each must be allowed its 
share of time and labor, in the proportion only which it 
beara to the whole; nor can it be expected, that the stones 
which form the dome of a temple, should be squared and 
polished like the diamond of a ring. 

Of the event of this work, for which, having labored it 
with so much application, I cannot but have some degree 
of parental fondness, it is natural to form conjectures, 
Tbose who have been persuaded to think well of my de- 
sign, will require that it should fix our language, and put 
a stop to those alterations which time and chance have 
hitherto been suffered to make in it without opposition. 
With this consequence I will confess that I flattered myself 
for a while; but now begJn to fear that I have indulged 
expectation which neither reason nor experience can justify. 
When we see men grow old and die at a certain time one 
after another, from century to century, we laugh at the elixir 
that promises to prolong life to a thousand years; and with 
equal justice may the lexicographer be derided, who being 
able to produce no example oi i nation that ha* preserved 



SAlftmL JORVSOS 

their words and phrases from mutability, shall Ima^e thai 
his dictionary can embalm iiis language, and secure it froitt 
corruption and decay, that it is in bis power to change 
sublunary nature, and clear the world at once from folly, 

vanity, and affectation. 

With this hope, however, academies have been instituted, 
to guard the avenues of their languages, to retain fugitives^ 
and repulse intruders; but their vigilance and activity have 
hitherto been vain; sounds arc too volatile and subtile 
legal restraints; to enchain syllables, and to lash the w 
are equally the undertakings of pride, unwilling to measure 
its desires by its strength. The French language has visibly 
changed under the inspection of the Academy; the style of 
Amelot's translation of Father Paul is observed by Le 
Courayer to be mi peu pass}; and no Italian will maintain 
that the diction of any modem writer is not perceptibly 
different from that of Boccace, Machiavel, or Caro. 

Total and sudden transformations of a language seldom 
happen; conquests and migrations are now very rare: but 
there are other causes of change, which, though slow in the" 
operation, and invisible in their progress, are perhaps i 
much superior to human resistance, as the revolutions of 
the sky, or intumescence of the tide. Commerce, howeve( 
necessary, however lucrative, as it depraves the manners; 
corrupts the language; they that have frequent intercours* 
with strangers, to whom they endeavor to accommodate 
themselves, must in time learn a mingled dialect, like the 
jargon which serves the traffickers on the Mediterranean and 
Indian coasts, This will not always be confined to the ex- 
change, the warehouse, or the port, but will be communicated 
by degrees to other ranks of the people, and be at last itt> 
corporated with the current speech. 

There are likewise internal causes equally forcible. The. 
language most likely to continue long without alterations, 
would be that of a nation raised a little, and but a littl^ 
above barbarity, secluded from strangers, and totally enn 
ployed in procuring the conveniences of life; either without 
books, or, like some of the Mahometan countries, with e 
few: men thus busied and unlearned, having only such word* 
as common use requires, would perhaps long continue t 



TO THE DICTIONARY 213 

^express the same notions by the same signs, But no such 
<mnstancy can be expccled in a people polished by arts, and 
<Jassed by subordination, where one part of the community 
3s sustained and accommodated by the labor of the other. 
"Those who have much leisure to think, will always be en- 
larging the slock of ideas; and every increase of knowledge, 
-whether real or fancied, will produce new words, or com- 
limatiDn of words. When the mind is unchained from neces- 
sity, it will range after convenience; when it is left at large 
ID the fields of speculation, it will shift opinions; as any 
custom is disused, the words that expressed it must perish 
with it; as any opinion grows popular, it will innovate 
speech in the same proportion as it alters practice. 

As by the cultivation of various sciences a language is 
amplified, it will he more furnished with words deflected 
from their original sense; the geometrician will talk of a 
courtier's zenith or the eccentric virtue of a wild hero, and 
the physician, of sanguine expectations and phlegmatic de- 
lays. Copiousness of speech will give opportunities to ca- 
pricious choice, by which some words will be preferred, and 
others degraded; vicissitudes of fashion will enforce the 
use of new, or extend the signification of known terms. 
The tropes of poetry will make hourly encroachments, and 
flie metaphorical will become the current sense: pronuncia- 
tion will be varied by levity or ignorance, and the pen must 
at length comply with the tongue; illiterate writers will, at 
one time or other, by public infatuation, rise into renown, 
who, not knowing the original import of words, will use 
them with colloquial licentiousness, confound distinction, and 
forget propriety. As politeness increases, some expressions 
will be considered as too gross and vulgar for the delicate. 
Others as too formal and ceremonious for the gay and airy ; 
new phrases are therefore adopted, which must for the same 
reasons be in time dismissed. Swift, in his petty treatise on 
the English language, allows that new words must some- 
times be introduced, but proposes that none should be suf- 
fered to become obsolete. But what makes a word obsolete, 
more than general agreement to forbear it? and how shall 
it be continued, when it conveys an offensive idea, or re- 
called again into the mouths of mankind, when it has once 



'm 



flAHUEL J0HN90W 



^ 



become unfamiliar by disuse, and unpleasing by unfa* 
miliarity ? 

There is another cause of alteration more prevalent than 
any other, which yet in the present state of the world can- 
not be obviated. A mixture of two languages will produce 
a third distinct from both, and they will always be 
where the chief parts of education, and the most conspicuous 
accomplishment, is skill in ancient or in foreign tongues. 
He that has long cultivated another language, will find its 
words and combinations crowd upon his memory; and haste 
and negligence, refinement and affectation, will obtrude bor- 
rowed terms and exotic expressions. 

The great pest of speech is frequency of translation. Nq, 
book was ever turned from one language into another, with' 
out imparling something of its native idiom; this is the mOh{ 
mischievous and comprehensive innovation; single won 
may enter by thousands, and the fabric of ^e tongue conr 
tinue the same; but new phraseology changes much 
it ahers not the single stones of the building, but the ordaf 
of the columns. If an academy should he established for 
the cultivation of our style — which I, who can never wis" 
to sec dependence muUiplled, hope the spirit of English lil 
erty will hinder or destroy — let them, instead of compilin 
grammars and dictionaries, endeavor, with all their uitlui 
ence, to slop the license of translators, whose idleness 
ignorance, if it be suffered to proceed, will reduce u; I 
babble a dialect of France. 

If the changes that we fear be thus irresistible, what n 
mains but to acquiesce with silence, as in the other ineui 
mountable distresses of humanity? It remains that Ti 
retard what we cannot repel, that we palliate what we can" 
not cure. Life may be lengthened by care, though death 
cannot be ultimately defeated: tongues, like governments, 
have a natural tendency to degeneration; we have long pre- 
served our constitution, let us make some struggles for our 
language. 

In hope of giving longevity to that which its own natun 
forbids to be immortal, 1 have devoted this book, the laboi 
of years, to the honor of my country, that we may no long< 
yield the palm of philolog> without & coatest, to the ni 



TO THE DICTIONARY 



215 



_ E the continent. The chief glory of every people arises 
from its authors : whether I shall add any thing by my own 
writings to the reputation of English literature, must be left 
to time: much of my life has been lost under the pressures 
of disease; much has been trifled away; and much has al- 
ways been spent in provision for the day that was passing 
over me; but I shall not think my employment useless or 
ignoble, if by my assistance foreign nations, and distant ages, 
gain access to the propagators of knowledge, and understand 
the teachers of truth; if my labors afford light to the re- 
positories of science, and add celebrity to Bacon, to Hooker, 
to Milton, and to Boyle. 

When I am animated by this wish, I look with pleasure on 
my book, however defective, and deliver it to the world with 
the spirit of a man that has endeavored well. That it will 
immediately become popular I have not promised to myself: 
a few wild blunders, and risible absurdities, from which no 
work of such multiplicity was ever free, may for a time 
furnish folly with laughter, and harden ignorance into con- 
tempt; but useful diligence will at last prevail, and there 
never can be wanting some who distinguish desert; who will 
consider that no dictionary of a living tongue ever can be 
perfect, since, while it is hastening to publication, some 
words are budding, and some falling away; that a whole life 
cannot be spent upon syntax and etymology, and that even a 
"Whole life would not he sufficient; that he, whose design 
includes whatever language can express, must often speak 
of what he does not understand ; that a writer will some- 
times be hurried by eagerness to the end, and sometimes 
■faint with weariness under a task which Scaliger compares 
to the labors of the anvil and the mine; that what is obvious 
is not always known, and what is known is not always 
present; that sudden fits of inadvertency will surprise 
vigilance, slight avocations wiH seduce attention, and casual 
eclipses of tfie mind will darken teaming; arid that the 
writer shall often in vain trace his memory at the moment 
of need, for that which yesterday he knew with intuitive 
readiness, and which will come uncalled into his thoughts 
to-morrow. 

bis work, when it shall be found that much is omitte^ 



I 

I 



216 SAMUEL JOHNSON 

let it not be forgotten that much likewise h pcffomiedi 
and though no book was ever spared out of tenderness to 
the author, and the world is little solicitous to know whence 
proceed the faults of that which it condemns; yet it may 
gratify curiosity to inform it, that the English Dictionarj 
was written with little assistance of the learned, and without 
any patronage of the great; not in the soft obscurities of 
retirement, or under the shelter of academic bowers, but 
amidst inconvenience and distraction, in sickness and in sor- 
row. It may repress the triumph of malignant criticism t» 
observe, that if our language is not here fully displayed, I 
have only failed in an attempt which no human powers have 
hitherto completed. If the lexicons of ancient tongues, 
immutably fixed, and comprised in a few volumes, be yeti 
after the toil of successive ages, inadequate and delusive ; if 
the aggregated knowledge, and co-operating diligence of the 
Italian academicians, did not secure them from the censure 
of Eeni ; if the embodied critics of France, when fifty years 
had been spent upon their work, were obliged to change its 
economy, and give their second edition another form, I may- 
surely be contented without the praise of perfection, which, 
if I could obtain, in this gloom of solitude, what would it 
avail me? 1 have protracted my work till most of those 
whom I wished to please have sunk into the grave, and 
success and miscarriage are empty sounds : I therefore dis- 
miss it with frigid tranquillity, having little to fear or hope 
from censure or from nraise. 



TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE THE EARL 
OF CHESTERFIELD 

February 7, 1735, 
My Lokd: 

I HAVE lately been informed by tiie proprietor of Tht 
World, that two papers, in which my Dictionary is recom- 
mended to the public, were written by your Lordships 
To be so distinguished is an honor which, being very 
little accustomed to favours from the great, I know act 
well how to receive, or in what terms to acknowledge. 



LETTER TO CHESTEBFIELD 
slight < 



Z17 

sited 



, upon some slight encouragement, I first i 
your Lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, 
by the enchantment of your address ; and I could not forbear 
to wish that I might boast myself 'Le vainqueur du vainqueur 
de la terre ' ; that I might obtain that regard for which I saw 
the world contending; but I found my attendance so Hltle en- 
couraged, that neither pride nor modesty would suffer me to 
continue it. When I had once addressed your Lordship in 
public, I had exhausted all the art of pleasing which a re- 
tired and uncourtly scholar can possess. I had done all that 
I could; and no man is well pleased to have his all neglected, 
be it ever so little. 

Seven years, my Lord, have now passed, since I waited 
in your outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door; 
during which time I have been pushing on my work through 
difficulties, of which it is useless to complain, and have 
brought it at last to the verge of publication, without one 
act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile 
of favor. Such treatment I did not expect, for I never had 
3 Patron before. 

The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted with 
Love, and found him a native of the rocks. 

Is not a Patron, my Lord, one who looks with unconcern 
on a man struggling for life in the water, and, when he has 
reached ground, encumbers him with help? The notice 
which you have heen pleased to take of my labors, had it 
been early, had been kind ; but it has been delayed till I am 
indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I am solitary, and can- 
not impart it; till I am known, and do not want it. I hope 
it is no very cynical asperity not to confess obligations where 
no benefit has been received, or to be unwilling that the 
Public should consider me as owing that to a Patron, which 
Providence has enabled me to do for myself. 

Having carried on my work thus far with so little obliga- 
tion to any favorer of learning, I shall not be disappointed 
though I should conclude if, if less be possible, with less; 
for I have been long wakened from that dream of hope, in 
which I once boasted myself with 3o much exultation. 
My Lord, Your Lordship's most humble, 
Most obedient servant, Sam. Johnson, 



^ 



PREFACE TO SHAKESPEARE 

BY SAMUEL JOHNSON. (1765) 

THAT praises are without reason lanshed on the dead, 
and that the honours due only to excellence are 
paid to antiquity, is a complaint likely to be always 
continued by those, who, being able to add nothing to truth, 
hope for eminence from tlie heresies of paradox; or those, 
who, being forced by disappointment upon consolatory ex- 
pedients, are willing to hope from posterity what the present 
age refuses, and flatter themselves that the regard which 
is yet denied by envy, will be at last bestowed by time. 

Antiquity, like every other quality that attracts the ootics 
of mankind, has undoubtedly votaries that reverence iU 
not from reason, but from prejudice. Some seem to admir* 
indiscriminately whatever has been long preserved, with- 
out considering that time has sometimes co-operated will* 
chance; all perhaps are more willing to honour past ths 
present excellence; and thx mind contemplates genii 
through the shades of age, as the eye surveys the si 
through artificial opacity. The great contention of criti- 
cism is to find the faults of the moderns, and the beauties oj 
the ancients. While an author is yet living we estimate hii 
powers by his worst performance, and when he is dead, ws. 
rate them by his best. 

To works, however, of which the excellence is not abso- 
lute and definite, but gradual and comparative; to works 
not raised upon principles demonstrative and scientiGck, hot 
appealing wholly to observation and experience, no other^ 
test can be applied than length of duration and continuani 
of esteem. What mankind have long possessed they bai 
often examined and compared; and if they persist to 
the possession, it is because frequent comparisons have coi 
firmed opinion in its favour. As among the works of natui 
no man can properly call a river deep, or a mountain hi^ 
218 



TO SHAKESPBARK 219 

9lathout the knowledge of many mountains, and many rivers ; 
so in the productions of genius, nothing can be stiled ex- 
cellent till it has been compared with other works of the 
same kind. Demonstration immediately displays ils power, 
and has nothing to hope or fear from the flux of years; 
but works tentative and experimental must be estimated by 
their proportion to the general and collective ability of 
man, as it is discovered in a long succession of endeavours. 
Of the first building that was raised, it might be with cer- 
tainty determined that it was round or square; but whether 
it was spacious or lofty must have been referred to time. 
The Pythagorean scale of numbers was at once discovered 
to be perfect; but the poems of Homer we yet know not to 
transcend the common limits of human intelligence, but 
by remarking, that nation after nation, and century after 
century, has been able to do little more than transpose his 
incidents, new-name his characters, and paraphrase his senti- 
ments. 

The reverence due to writings that have long subsisted 
arises therefore not from any credulous confidence in the 
superior wisdom of past ages, or gloomy persuasion of the 
degeneracy of mankind, but is the consequence of acknowl- 
edged and indubitable positions, that what has been longest 
known has been most considered, and what is most con- 
sidered is best understood. 

The Poet, of whose works I have undertaken the re- 
vision, may now begin to assume the dignity of an ancient, 
and claim the privilege of established fame and prescriptive 
veneration. He has long outlived his century, the term com- 
monly fixed as the test of literary merit. Whatever ad- 
vantages he might once derive from personal allusions, local 
customs, or temporary opinions, have for many years been 
lost; and every topick of merriment, or motive of sorrow, 
which the modes of artificial life afforded him, now only 
sbscure the scenes which they once illuminated. The ef- 
fects of favour and competition are at an end ; the tradition 
of his friendships and his enemies has perished; his works 
support no opinion with arguments, nor supply any faction 
with invectives; they can neither indulge vanity nor gratify 

kalignity; but are read without any other reason than the 



SAMUEL JOHNSON 

desire of pleasure, and arc therefore praised only as pleasare 
is obtained: yet, thus unassisted by interest or passion, they 
have past through variations of taste and changes of man- 
ners, and, as they devolved from one generation to another, 
have received new honours at every transmission. 

But because human judgment, though it be gradually gain- 
ing upon certainty, never becomes infallible; and approba- 
tion, though long continued, may yet be only the approbation 
of prejudice or fashion; it is proper to inquire, by what 
peculiarities of excellence Shakespeare has gained and kept 
the favour of his countrymen. 

Nothing can please many, and please long, but just repre- 
sentations of general nature. Particular manner, can be 
known to few, and therefore few only can judge how nearly 
they are copied. The irregular combinations of fanciful in- 
vention may delight a-while, by that novelty of which the 
common satiety of life sends us all in quest ; but the pleasures 
of sudden wonder are soon exhausted, and the mind can 
only repose on the stability of truth. 

Shakespeare is above all writers, at least above all modern 
writers, the poet of nature; the poet that holds up to his 
readers a faithful mirrour of manners and of life. His 
characters are not modified by the customs of particular 
places, unpractised by the rest of the world; by the peculi- 
arities of studies or professions, which can operate but upon 
small numbers; or by the accidents of transient fashions or 
temporary opinions: they are the genuine progeny of com- 
mon humanity, such as the world will always supply, and 
observation will always find. His persons act and speak 
by the influence of those general passions and principles 
by which all minds are agitated, and the whole system of 
life is continued in motion. In the writings of other poets 
a character is too often an individual; in those of Shake- 
speare it is commonly a species. 

It is from this wide extension of design that so much in- 
struction is derived. It is this which fills the plays of 
Shakespeare with practical axioms and domestic wisdom. 
It was said of Euripides, that every verse was a precept; 
and it may be said of Shakespeare, that from his works 
may be collected a system of civil and oeconomical prudencb 



TO SHAKESPEAKE 221 

f et his real power is not shewn in the splendour of particular 
jiassages, but by the progress of his fable, and the tenour 
of his dialogue; and he that tries to recommend him by 
select quotations, will succeed like the pedant in Hierocles, 
Avho, when he offered his house to sale, carried a brick in 
tiis pocket as a specimen. 

It will not easily be imagined how much Shakespeare ex- 
cells in accommodating his sentiments to real life, but by 
comparing him with other authors. It was observed of 
the ancient schools of decSamation, that the more umgently 
they were frequented, the more was the student disquali- 
fied for the world, because he found nothing there which 
he should ever meet in any other place. The same re- 
mark may be applied to every stage but that of Shakespeare. 
The theatre, when it is under any other direction, is 
peopled by such characters as were never seen, convers- 
ing in a language which was never heard, upon topicks 
which will never rise in the commerce of mankind. But 
the dialogue of this author is often so evidently deter- 
mined by the incident which produces it, and is pursued 
with so much eaae and simplicity, that it seems scarcely to 
claim the merit of fiction, hut to have been gleaned by 
diligent selection out of common conversation, and com- 
mon occurrences. 

Upon every other stage the universal agent is love, by 
whose power all good and evil is distributed, and every 
action quickened or retarded. To bring a lover, a lady and 
a rival into the fable; to entangle them in contradictory 
obligations, perplex them with oppositions of interest, and 
harrass them with violence of desires inconsistent with each 
other; to make them meet in rapture and part in agony; to 
fill their mouths with hyperbolical joy and outrageous sor- 
row; to distress them as nothing human ever was distressed; 
to deliver them as nothing human ever was delivered; is the 
business of a modem dramatist. For this probability is 
violated, life is misrepresented, and language is depraved. 
But love is only one of many passions; and as it has no 
great influence upon the sum of life, it has little operation 
in the dramas of a poet, who caught his ideas from the 
living world, 4nd exhibited only what he saw before him. 



SAMUEL JOHIVSON 

He knew, that any other passion, as it was re^lar or ex- 
orbitant, was a cause of happiness or calamity. 

Characters thus ample and general were not easily dis- 
criminated and preserved, yet perhaps no poet ever kept hl9 
personages more distinct from each other. I will not say 
with Pope, that every speech may be assigned to the propef 
speaker, because many speeches there are which have noth- 
ing characteristical ; but perhaps, though some may be 
equally adapted to every person, it will be difEcult to find 
any that can be properly transferred from the present pos- 
sessor to another claimant. The choice is right, when there 
is reason for choice. 

Other dramatists can only gain attention by hyperbolical 
or aggravated characters, by fabulous and unexampled ex* 
cellence or depravity, as the writers of barbarous romances 
invigorated the reader by a giant and a dwarf; and he that 
should form his expectations of human affairs from the play, 
or from the tale, would be equally deceived. Shakespeart 
has no heroes; his scenes are occupied only by men, who' 
act and speak as the reader thinks that be should himself 
have spoken or acted on the same occasion: Even where the 
agency is supernatural the dialogue is level with life. Othet 
writers disguise the most natural passions and most frequenl 
incidents ; so that he who contemplates them in the book win 
not know them in the world; Shakespeare approximates the 
remote, and familiarizes the wonderful; the event which t 
represents will not happen, but if It were possible, its effect) 
would probably be such as he has assigned; and it may 1 
said, that he has not only shewn human nature as it acts i 
real exigencies, but as it would be found in trials, to whld 
it cannot be exposed. 

This therefore is the praise of Shakespeare, that hii drami 
is the mirrour of life; that he who has mazed his imaging 
tion, in following the phantoms which other writers raiM 
up before him, may here be cured of his delirious extasiei^ 
by reading human sentiments in human language, by S 
from which a hermit may estimate the transactions of th( 
world, and a confessor predict the progress of the passions 

His adherence to general nature has exposed him to t' 
censure of criticks, who form their Judgments upon narr 



TO shakbSpearb 

principles. Dennis and Rhymer think his Romans not suf- 
ficiently Roman; and Voltaire censures his kings as not com- 
pletely royal. Dennis is offended, that Menenius, a senator 
of Rome, should play the buffoon; and Voltaire perhaps 
thinks decency violated when the Danish Usurper is repre- 
sented as a drunkard. But Shakespeare always makes nature 
predominate over accident; and if he preserves the essential 
character, is not very careful of distinctions superinduced 
and adventitious. His story requires Romans or kings, but 
he thinks only on men. He knew that Rome, like every 
other city, had men of all dispositions ; and wanting a 
buffoon, he went into the senate-house for that which the 
senate-house would certainly have afforded him. He was in- 
clined to shew an usurper and a murderer not only odious 
but despicable, he therefore added drunkenness to his other 
qualities, knowing that kings love wine like other men, and 
that wine exerts its natural power upon kings. These are 
the petty cavils of petty minds ; a poet overlooks the casual 
distinction of country and condition, as a painter, satisfied 
with the figure, neglects the drapery. 

The censure which he has incurred by mixing comick and 
tragick scenes, as it extends to all his works, deserves more 
consideration. Let the fact be first stated, and then 
examined. 

Shakespeare's plays are not in the rigorous and critical 
sense eillier tragedies or comedies, but compositions of a 
distinct kind; exhibiting the real state of sublunary nature, 
which partakes of good and evil, joy and sorrow, mingled 
with endless variety of proportion and innumerable modes 
of combination; and e.'tpressing the course of the world, in 
which the loss of one is the gain of another; in which, at 
the same time, the reveller is hasting to his wine, and the 
mourner burying his friend; in which the malignity of one 
is sometimes defeated by the frolick of another; and many 
tnischiefs and many benefits are done and hindered without 
design. 

Out of this chaos of mingled purposes and casualties the 
ancient poets, according to the laws which custom had pre- 
scribed, selected some the crimes of men, and some their ab- 
surdities; some the momentous vicissitudes of life, and some 



SAMUEL JOHNSON 

the lighter occurrences; some the terrours of distress, and 
some the gayeties of prosperity. Thus rose the two modes 
of iinitation, known by the names of tragedy and comedy, 
compositions intended to promote different ends by contrary 
means, and considered as so little allied, that I do not rec- 
ollect among the Greeks or Romans a single writer who at- 
tempted both. 

Shakespeare has united the powers of exciting laughter 
and sorrow not only in one mind, but in one composition. 
Almost all his plays are divided between serious and ludi- 
crous characters, and. in the successive evolutions of the de- 
sign, sometimes produce seriousness and sorrow, and some- 
times levity and laughter. 

That this is a practice contrary to the rules of criticism 
will be readily allowed; but there is always an appeal open 
from criticism to nature. The end of writing is to instruct; 
the end of poetry is to instruct by pleasing. That the min- 
gled drama may convey all the instruction of tragedy or 
comedy cannot be denied, because it includes both in its 
alterations of exhibition and approaches nearer than either 
to the appearance of life, by siiewing how great machina- 
tions and slender designs may promote or obviate one an- 
other, and the high and the low co-operate in the general 
system by unavoidable concatenation. 

It is objected, that by this change of scenes the passions 
are interrupted in their progression, and that the principal 
event, being not advanced by a due gradation of preparatory 
incidents, wants at last the power to move, which constitutes 
the perfection of dramatick poetry. This reasoning is so 
specious, that it is received as true even by those who in 
daily experience feel it to be false. The interchanges of min- 
gled scenes seldom fail to produce die intended vicissitudes 
of passion. Fiction cannot move so much, but that the at- 
tention may be easily transferred ; and though it must be 
allowed that pleasing melancholy be sometimes interrupted 
by unwelcome levity, yet let it be considered likewise, that 
melancholy is often not pleasing, and that the disturbance 
of one man may be the relief of another; that different 
auditors have different habitudes: and that, upon the whole, 
all pleasure consists in variety. 



TO SHAKESPEARE 225 

^e players, who in their edition divided our authour's 
^Orks into comedies, histories, and tragedies, seem not to 
have distinguished the three kinds by any very exact or 
definite Ideas. 

And action which ended happily to the principal persons, 
however serious or distressful through its intermediate in- 
cidents, in their opinion, constituted a comedy. This idea 
of a comedy continued long amongst us ; and plays were 
written, which, by changing the catastrophe, were tragedies 
to-day, and comedies to-morrow. 

Tragedy was not in those times a poem of more general dig- 
nity or elevation than comedy; it required only a calamitous 
conclusion, with which the common criticism of that age was 
satisfied, whatever lighter pleasure it afforded in its progress. 

History was a series of actions, with no other than chrono- 
logical succession, independent on each other, and without 
any tendency to introduce or regulate the conclusion. It is 
not always very nicely distinguished from tragedy. There 
is not much nearer approach to unity of action in the tragedy 
of Aniony and Cleopatra, than in the history of Richard the 
Second. But a history might be continued tlirough many 
plays; as it had no plan, it had no limits. 

Through all these denominations of the drama. Shake- 
speare's mode of composition is the same; an interchange 
of seriousness and merriment, by which the mind is softened 
at one time, and exhilarated at another. But whatever be 
his purpose, whether to gladden or depress, or to conduct the 
story, without vehemence or emotion, through tracts of 
easy and familiar dialogue, he never fails to attain his 
purpose; as he commands us, we laugh or mourn, or sit 
silent with quiet expectation, in tranquillity without in- 
difference. 

When Shakespeare's plan is understood, most of the 
criticisms of Rhymer and Voltaire vanish away. The play 
of Hamlet is opened, without impropriety, by two sentinels; 
lago bellows at Brabantio's window, without injury to the 
scheme of the play, though in terms which a modem audi- 
ence would not easily endure; the character of Polonius 
is seasonable and useful; and the Grave-diggers themselves 
may be heard with applause. 

(8) 



tm SAHtTEL JOHNSON 

Shakesptare engaged in dramatick poetry with the worM 
open before him ; the rules of the ancients were yet knowa 
to few; but publick judgment was unformed; he had i 
example of such fame as might force him upon imiUtioit, 
nor critjcks of such authority as might restrain his ex- 
travagance: He therefore indulged his natural disposition*, 
and his disposition, as Rhymer has remarked, led hin 
comedy. In tragedy he often writes, with great appearance 
of toil and study, what is written at last with little felicity J 
but in his comick scenes, he seems to produce without labouff 
what no labour can improve. In tragedy he is always strug- 
gling after some occasion to be comick ; but in comedy ha 
seems to repose, or to luxuriate, as in a mode of thinking coti' 
genial to his nature. In his tragick scenes there is alwBya 
something wanting, but his comedy often surpasses ex- 
pectation or desire. His comedy pleases by the thoughts and' 
the language, and his tragedy for the greater part by i 
cident and action. His tragedy seems to be skiU, his comedy 
to be instinct. 

The force of his comick scenes has suffered little diminix 
tion from the changes made by a century and a half, ift 
manners or in words. As his personages act upon prill' 
ciples arising from genuine passion, very little modifiea 
by particular forms, their pleasures and vexations an 
communicable to all times and to all places ; they are natural, 
and therefore durable; the adventitious peculiarities of 
personal habits, are only superficial dies, bright and pleas* 
ing for a little while, yet soon fading to a dim tinct, with* 
out any remains of former lustre; but the discriminationa 
of true passion are the colours of nature ; they pervat 
the whole mass, and can only perish with the body thi 
exhibits them. The accidental compositions of heterogene< 
ous modes are dissolved by the chance which combined' 
them; but the uniform simplicity of primitive qualitiel 
neither admits increase, nor suffers decay. The sand hclig 
by one flood is scattered by another, hut the rock alwayl 
continues in its place. The stream of time, which is c 
tinually washing the dissoluble fabrlcks of other poetl^ 
passes without injury by the adamant of Shakespeare 

It there be, what I believe there is, in every nation, I 



Btile which never becomes obsolete, a certain mode of 
phraseology ao consonant and congenial to the analogy 
and principles of its respective language as to remain set- 
tled and unaltered ; this style is probably to be sought in 
the common intercourse of life, among those who speak 
only to be understood, without ambition of elegance. The 
polite are always catching modish innovations, and the 
learned depart from established forms of speech, in hope 
of finding or making better; those who wish for distinction 
forsake the vulgar, when the vulgar is right; but there is 
a conversation above grossness and below re6iiement, 
where propriety resides, and where tliis poet seems to have 
gathered his comick dialogue. He is therefore more agree- 
able to the ears of the present age than any other authour 
equally remote, and among his other excellencies deserves 
to be studied as one of the original masters of our language. 

These observations are to be considered not as unex- 
ceptional ly constant, but as containing general and pre- 
dominant truth. Shakespeare's familiar dialogue is affirmed 
to be smooth and clear, yet not wholly without ruggedness 
or difficulty ; as a country may be eminently fruitful, though 
it has spots unfit for cultivation : His characters are praised as 
natural, though their sentiments are sometimes forced, and 
their actions improbable; as the earth upon the whole is 
spherical, though its surface is varied with protuberances 
and cavities. 

Shakespeare with his excellencies has likewise faults, and 
faults sufficient to obscure and overwhelm any other merit. 
I shall shew them in the proportion in which they appear to 
me, without envious malignity or superstitious veneration. 
No question can be more innocently discussed than a dead 
poet's pretensions to renown ; and little regard is due to that 
bigotry which sets candour higher than truth. 

His first defect is that to which may be imputed most of 
the evil in books or in men. He sacrifices virtue to con- 
venience, and is so much more careful to please than to 
instruct, that he seems to write without any moral purpose. 
From his writings indeed a system of social duty may be 
selected, for he that thinks reasonably must think morally; 
but his precepts and axioms drop casually from him; he 



K28 5AHUEI. JOHNSON 

makes no just distribution of good or evil, nor is always care- 
ful to shew in the virtuous a disapprobation of the wicked; he 
carries his persons indifferently through right and wrong, 
and at the close dismisses them without further care, 
and leaves their examples to operate by chance. This fault 
the barbarity of his age cannot extenuate; for it is always 
a writer's duty to make the world better, and justice is a 
virtue independent on time or place. 

" The plots are often so loosely formed, that a very slight 
consideration may improve them, and so carelessly pur- 
sued, that he seems not always fully to comprehend his own 
design. He omits opportunities of instructing or delighting 
J which the train of his story seems to force upon him, and 
apparently rejects those exhibitions which would be more 
affecting, for the sake of those which are more easy. 

It may be observed, that in many of his plays the latter 
part is evidently neglected. When he found himself near 
the end of his work, and, in view of his reward, he shortened 
the labour to snatch the profit. He therefore remits his 
efforts where he should most vigorously exert them, and his 
catastrophe is improbably produced or imperfectly repre- 

He had no regard to distinction of time or place, but 
gives to one age or nation, without scruple, the customs, in- 
stitutions, and opinions of another, at the expence not only 
of likelihood, but of possibility. These faults Pope has en- 
deavoured, with more zeal than judgment, to transfer to his 
imagined interpolators. We need not wonder to find 
Hector quoting Aristotle, when we see the loves of Theseus 
and Hippolyta combined with the Gothkk mythology of 
fairies. Shakespeare, indeed, was not the only violator of 
chronology, for in the same age Sidney, who wanted not 
the advantages of learning, has, in his Arcadia, confounded 
the pastoral with the feudal times, the days of innocence, 
quiet and security, with those of turbulence, violence, and 
adventure. 

In his comick scenes he is seldom very successful, when 
he engages his characters in reciprocations of smartness and 
contests of sarcasm; their jests are commonly gross, and 
their pleasantry licentious; neither his gentlemen nor his 



TO SHAKESPEARE 229 

ladies have much delicacy, nor are sufficiently distinguished 
from his clowns by any apoearance of refined manners. 
Whether he represented the real conversation of his time is 
not easy to determine; the reign of Elizabeth is commonly 
supposed to have been a time of stateliness, formality and 
reserve; yet perhaps the relaxations of that severity were 
not very elegant. There must, however, have been always 
some modes of gayety preferable to others, and a writer 
ought to chuse the best. 

In tragedy his performance seems constantly to be worse, 
as his labour is more. The effusions of passion which ex- 
igence forces out are for the most part striking and ener- 
getick ; but whenever he solicits his invention, or strains his 
faculties, the offspring of his throes is tumour, meanness, 
tediousness, and obscurity. 

In narration he affects a disproportionate pomp of diction, 
and a wearisome train of circumlocution, and tells the inci- 
dent imperfectly in many words, which might have been 
more plainly delivered in few. Narration in dramatick 
poetry is naturally tedious, as it is unanimated and inactive, 
and obstructs the progress of the action; it should there- 
fore always be rapid, and enlivened by frequent interruption. 
Shakespeare found it an encumberance, and instead of 
lightening it by brevity, endeavoured to recommend it by 
dignity and splendour. 

His declamations or set speeches are commonly cold and 
weak, for his power was the power of nature; when he en- 
deavoured, like other tragick writers, to catch opportunities 
of amplification, and instead of inquiring what the occasion 
demanded, to show how much his stores of knowledge could 
supply, he seldom escapes without the pity or resentment of 
his reader. 

It is incident to him to be now and then entangled with 
an unwieldy sentiment, which he cannot well express, and 
will not reject; he struggles with it a while, and if it con- 
tinues stubborn, comprises it in words such as occur, and 
leaves it to be disentangled and evolved by those who have 
more leisure to bestow upon it. 

Not that always where the language is intricate the 
s subtle, or the image always great where the line is 



SAMUEL JOHNSON 

buUcy; the equality of words to things is very often neg- 
lected, and trivia] sentiments and vulgar ideas disappoint 
the attention, to which they are tecommended by sonoroui 
epithets and swelling figures. 

But the admirers of this great poet have never less 
reason to indulge their hopes of supreme, excellence, than 
when he seems fully resolved to sink them in dejection, 
and mollify them with tender emotions by the fall of great^ 
ness, the danger of innocence, or the crosses of love, 
is not long soft and pathetick without some idle conceil 
' contemptible equivocation. He no sooner begins to move, 
than he counteracts himself; and terrour and pity, as tlaey 
arc rising in the mind, are checked and blasted by sudden 
frigidity, 

A quibble is to Shakespeare, what luminous vapours 9 
to the traveller; he follows it at all adventures; it is sure 
to lead him out of his way, and sure to engulf him in the 
mire. It has some malignant power over his mind, and its 
fascinations are irresistible. Whatever be the dignity or 
profundity of his disquisition, whether he be enlarging 
knowledge or exalting affection, whether he be amusing 
attention with incidents, or enchaining it in suspense, let 
but a quibble spring up before him, and he leaves his Work 
unfinished. A quibble is the golden apple for which he will 
always turn aside from Ills career, or stoop from his eleva- 
tion. A quibble, poor and barren as it is, gave him silch 
delight, that he was content to purchase it, by the sacrifice 
of reason, propriety and truth. A quibble was to him 
fatal Cleopatra for which he lost the world, and was con- 
tent to lose it. 

It will be thought strange, that, in enumerating the de- 
fects of this writer, I have not yet mentioned his neglect 
of the unities; his violation of those laws which have been 
instituted and established by the joint authority of poets 
and cri ticks. 

For his other deviations from the art of writing I resign 
him to critical justice, without making any other demand in 
his favour, than that which must be indulged to all human 
excellence: that his virtues be rated with his failings: But 
from the censure which this irregularity may bring upoA^ 



r*^ t. - 

TO SHAKESPEARE 

him, I shall, with due reverence to that learning which I 
must oppose, adven jre to try how I can defend him. 

His histories, being neitlier tragedies nor comedies are 
not subject to any of their laws; nothing more is necessary 
to all the praise which they expect, than that the changes 
of action he so prepared as to be understood, that the inci- 
dents be various and affecting, and the characters consistent, 
natural, and distinct. No other unity is intended, and there- 
fore none is to be sought. 

In his other works he has well enough preserved the 
unity of action. He has not, indeed, an intrigue reguiarly 
perplexed and regularly unravelled : he does not endeavour 
to hide his design only to discover it, for this is seldom the 
order of real events, and Shakespeare is the poet of nature: 
But his plan has commonly what Aristotle requires, a begin- 
ning, a middle, and an end; one event is concatenated with 
another, and the conclusion follows by easy consequence. 
There are perhaps some incidents that might be spared, as in 
other poets there is much talk that only fills up time upon 
the stage; but the general system makes gradual advances, 
and the end of the play is the end of expectation. 

To the unities of time and place he has shewn no regard; 
and perhaps a nearer view of the principles on which they 
stand will diminish their value, and withdraw from them the 
veneration which, from the time of Comeille, they have veiy 
generally received, by discovering that they have given more 
trouble to the poet, than pleasure to the auditor. 

The necessity of observing the unities of time and place 
arises from the supposed necessity of making the drama 
credible. The criticks hold it impossible, that an action of 
months or years can be possibly believed to pass in three 
hours; or that the spectator can suppose himself to sit in the 
theatre, while ambassadors go and return between distant 
kings while armies are levied and towns besieged, while 
an exile wanders and returns, or til! he whom they saw 
courting his mistress, shall lament the untimely fall of his 
son. The mind revolts from evident falsehood, and fiction 
loses its force when it departs from the resemblance of 
reality 

~ 1 the narrow limitation of time necessarily arises tb* 



i 



m SAMUEL JOHNSON 

contraction of place. The spectator, who knows that he 
saw the first act at Alexandria, cannot suppose that he sees 
the next at Rome, at a distance to which not the dragons of 
Medea could, in so short a time, have transported him ; he- 
Icnows wilh certainty that he has not changed his place, 
and he knows that place cannot change itself; that what 
was a house cannot become a plain; that what was Thebes 
can never be PersepoHs. 

Such is the triumphant langtiage with which a critick 
exuhs over the misery of an irregular poet, and exults com- 
monly without resistance or reply. It is time therefore to 
tell him by the authority of Shakespeare, that he assumes, 
as an unquestionable principle, a position, which, while his 
breath is forming it into words, bis understanding pro- 
nounces to be false. It is false, that any representation is 
mistake for reality; that any dramatick fable in its ma- 
teriality was ever credible, or, for a single moment, was ever 
credited. 

The objection arising from the impossibility of passing 
the first hour at Alexandria, and the next at Rome, supposes, 
that when the play opens, the spectator really imagines him- 
self at Alexandria, and believes that his walk to the theatre 
has been a voyage to Egypt, and that he lives in the days of 
Antony and Cleopatra. Surely he that imagines this may 
imagine more. He that can take the stage at one time for 
the palace of the Ptolemies, may take it in half an hour for 
the promontory of Aclium. Delusion, if delusion be ad- 
mitted, has no certain limitation; if the spectator can be 
once persuaded, that his old acquaintance are Alexander and 
Casar, that a room illuminated with candles is the plain of 
Pharsalia, or the bank of Granicus, he is in a state of ele- 
vation above the reach of reason, or of truth, and from die 
heights of empyrean poetry, may despise the circumscrip- 
tions of terrestrial nature. There is no reason why a mind 
thus wandering in extacy should count the clock, or why an 
hour should not be a century in that calenture of the brains 
that can make the stage a iield. 

The truth is, that the spectators are always in their senses, 
and know, from the first act to the last, that the stage is only 
a stage, and that the players are only players. They came 






TO SHAKESPEARE 233 

to hear a certain number of lines recited with just geature 
and elegant modulation. The lines relate to some action, 
and an action must be in some place ; but the different ac- 
tions that complete a story may be in places very remote 
from each other; and where is the absurdity of allowing that 
space to represent first Athens, and then Sicily, which was 
always known to be neither Sicily nor Athens, but a modern 
theatre? 

By supposition, as place is introduced, times may be ex- 
tended; the time required by the fable elapses for the most 
part between the acts; for, of so much of the action as is 
represented, the real and poetical duration is the same. If, 
in the first act, preparations for war against Miihrjdates are 
represented to be made in Rome, the event of the war may, 
without absurdity, be represented, in the catastrophe, as 
happening in Pontus; we laiow that there is neither war, 
nor preparation for war; we know that we are neither in 
Rome nor Pontus; that neither Mithridates nor Lucullus arc 
before us. The drama exhibits successive imitations of suc- 
cessive actions ; and why may not the second imitation rep- 
resent an action that happened years after the first, if it be 
so connected with it, that nothing but time can be supposed 
to intervene? Time is. of all modes of existence, most ob- 
sequious to the imagination; a lapse of years is as easily 
conceived as a passage of hours. In contemplation we easily 
contract the time of real actions, and therefore willingly 
permit it to be contracted when we only see their imitation. 

It will be asked, how the drama moves, if it is not credited. 
It is credited with all the credit due to a drama. It is 
credited, whenever it moves, as a just picture of a real 
original ; as representing to the auditor what he would him- 
self feel, if he were to do or suffer what is there feigned to 
be suffered or to be done. The reflection that strikes the 
heart is not, that the evils before us are real evils, but 
that they are evils to which we ourselves may be ex- 
posed. If there be any fallacy, it is not that we fancy the 
players, but that we fancy ourselves unhappy for a moment; 
but we rather lament the possibility than suppose the pres- 
ence of misery, as a mother weeps over her babe, when she 
mbers that death may take it from her. The delight 



jg^nbe: 



Win SAMUEL JOHNSON 

^ of tragedy proceeds from our consciousness of fiction ; if we 
thought murders and treasons real, they would please no 
more. 

Imitations produce pain or pleasure, not because they are 
mistaken for realities, but because they bring realities to 
mind. When the imagination is recreated by a painted land- 
scape, the trees are not supposed capable to give us shade, 
or the fountains coolness; but we consider, how we should 
be pleased with such fountains playing beside us, and such 
woods waving over us. We are agitated in reading the his- 
tory of Henry the Fifth, yet no man takes his book for the 
field of Agencourt. A dramatick exhibition is a book recited 
with concomitants that en crease or diminish its effect 
Familiar comedy is often more powerful in the theatre, than 
on the page; imperial tragedy is always less. The humour 
of Petruchio may be heightened by grimace ; but what voice 
or what gesture can hope to add dignity or force to the solU- 
oquy of Cato. 

A play read, affects the mind like a play acted. It is 
therefore evident, that the action is not supposed to be real; 
and it follows, that between the acts a longer or shorter 
time may be allowed to pass, and that no more account of 
space or duration is to be taken by the auditor of a drama, 
than by the reader of a narrative, before whom may pass in 
an hour the life of a hero, or the revolutions of an empire. 
Whether Shakespeare knew the unities, and rejected 
them by design, or deviated from them by happy ignorance, 
it is, I think, impossible to decide, and useless to enquire. 
We may reasonably suppose, that, when he rose to notice, 
he did not want the counsels and admonitions of scholars 
and criticks, and that he at last deliberately persisted in a 
practice, which he might have begun by chance. As noth- 
ing is essential to the fable, but unity of action, and as the 
unities of time and place arise evidently from false assuntp* 
tions, and, by circumscribing the extent of the drama, les- 
sen its variety, I cannot think it much to be lamented, that 
they were not known by him, or not observed: Nor, if 
such another poet could arise, should I very vehemently 
reproach him, that his first act passed at Venice, and his 
next in Cyprus. Such violations of rules merely positnCi 



TO SHAKESPEARE 

become the comprehensive genius of Stuikespeare, and 
such cenaures are suitable to the minute and slender criti- 
cism of Voltaire: 

Nan usque adeo pertoiscuit imis 
Longus surama dies, ut non, si voce Metelli 
Serventur teges, malint a Cassare tolli. 

Yet when I speak thus slightly of dramatick rules, I can- 
not but recollect how much wit and learning may be pro- 
duced against me; before such authorities I am afraid te 
stand, not that I think the present question one of those that 
are to be decided by mere authority, but because it is to be 
suspected, that these precepts have not been so easily re- 
ceived but for better reasons than I have yet been able to 
find. The result of my enquiries, in which it would be 
ludicrous to boast of impartiality, is, that the unities of 
time and place are not essentia! to a just drama, that 
though they may sometimes conduce to pleasure, they are 
always to be sacrificed to the nobler beauties of variety and 
instruction; and that a play, written with nice observation 
of critical rules, is to be contemplated as an elaborate curi- 
osity, as the product of superfluous and ostentatious art, by 
■which is shewn, rather what is possible, than what is neces- 
sary. 

He that, without diminution of any other excellence, shall 
preserve all the unities unbroken, deserves the like applause 
with the architect, who shall display all the orders of archi- 
tecture in a citadel, without any deduction from its strength; 
but the principal beauty of a citadel is to exclude the enemy; 
and the greatest graces of a play, are to copy nature and 
instruct life. 

Perhaps what I have here not dogmatically but delibera- 
tively written, may reeal the principles of the drama to a 
new examination. I am almost frighted at my own temerity ; 
and when I estimate the fame and the strength of those that 
maintain the contrary opinion, am ready to sink down 
in reverential silence ; as Mneas withdrew from the defence 
of Troy, when he saw Neptune shaking the wall, and Juno 
heading the besiegers. 

Tiose whom mj arguments cannot persuade to give their 



' tX SAXUEL JUHN9UN 

xppnAa&M to the judgment of Shakespeare, will easily, 
if they consider the conditicm of bis life, make some allow- 
ance for his ignorance. 

Every man's performances, to be rigbtly estimated, must 
be compared with the state of the age in which he lived, 
and with his own particular opportunities; and though to the 
reader a book be not worse or better for the circumstances 
of the authour, yet as there is always a silent reference of 
human works to human abilities, and as the enquiry, how 
far man may extend his designs, or how high he may rate 
his native force, is of far greater dignity than in what rank 
we shall place any particular performance, curiosity is al- 
ways busy to discover the instruments, as well as to survey 
the workmanship, to know how much is to be aicribed to 
original powers, and how much to casual and adven- 
-r-^^ titious help. The palaces of Peru or Mexico were certainly 
'NjNJ I mean and incommodious habitations, if compared to the 
/houses of European monarchs; yet who could forbear 
to view them with astonishment, who remembered that they 
were built without the use of iron? 

The English nation, in the time of Shakespeare, was yet 
struggling to emerge from barbarity. The philology of Italy 
had been transplanted hither in the reign of Henry the 
Eighth; and the learned languages had been successfully cul- 
tivated by Lilly, Linacer, and More; by Pole, Cheke, and 
Gardiner; and afterwards by Smith, Clerk, Haddon, and 
Ascham. Greek was now taught to boys in the principal 
schools; and those who united elegance with learning, read, 
with great diligence, the Italian and Spanish poets. But 
literature was yet confined to professed scholars, or to men 
and women of high rank. The publick was gross and dark; 
and to be able to read and write, was an accomplishment still 
valued for its rarity. 

Nations, like individuals, have their infancy. A people 
newly awakened to literary curiosity, being yet unac- 
quainted with the true state of things, knows not how to 
judge of that which is proposed as its resemblance. What- 
ever is remote from common appearances is always wel- 
come to vulgar, as to childish credulity: and of a country 
tin enlightened by learning, the whole people is the vulgar 



TO SHAKESPEARE 237 

The study of those who then aspired to plebeian learning 
was laid out upon adventures, giants, dragons, and enchant- 
ments. The Death of Arthur was the favourite volume. 

The mind, which has feasted on the luxurious wonders of 
fiction, has no taste of the insipidity of truth. A play which 
imitated only the common occurrences of the world, would, 
upon the admirers of Palmerin and Guy of Warwick, have 
made little impression; he that wrote for such an audience 
was under the necessity of looking round for strange events 
and fabulous transactions, and that incredibility, by which 
maturer Isnowledge is offended, was the chief recommenda- 
tion of writings, to unskilful curiosity. 

Our authour'a plots are generally borrowed from novels, 
and it is reasonable to suppose, that he chose the most popu- 
lar, such as were read by many, and related by more ; for his 
audience could not have followed him through the intrica- 
cies of the drama, had they not held the thread of the story 
in their hands. 

The stories, which we now find only in remoter authours, 
were in his time accessible and familiar. The fable of As 
you like it, which is supposed to be copied from Chaucer's 
Gamelyn, was a little pamphlet of those times; and old Mr. 
Cibber remembered the tale of Hamlet in plain English 
prose, which the criticks have now to seek in Saxo Cram- 
maticus. 

His English histories he took from English chronicles 
and English ballads; and as tlie ancient writers were made 
known to his countrymen by versions, they supplied him with 
new subjects; he dilated some of Plutarch's lives into plays, 
when they had been translated by North. 

His plots, whether historical or fabulous, are always 
crouded with incidents, by which the attention of a rude 
people was more easily caught than by sentiment or argu- 
mentation; and such is the power of the marvellous even 
over those who despise it, that every man finds his mind 
more strongly seized by the tragedies of Shakespeare than of 
any other writer; others please us by particular speeches, 
but he always makes us anxious for the event, and has per- 
haps excelled ail but Homer in securing the first purpose 
of a writer, by exciting restless and unquenchable curiosity 



m SAMUEL JOHNSON 

and compelling him that reads his work to read it throngfi. 
The shows and bustle with which his plays abound have 
the same original. As knowledge advances, pleasure passes 
from the eye to the ear, but returns, as it declines, from 
the ear to the eye. Those to whom our authour'e labotirs 
were exhibited had more skill in pomps or processions than 
in poetical language, and perhaps wanted some visible and 
discriminated events, as comments on the dialogue. He 
knew how he should most please ; and whether his practice 
is more agreeable to nature, or whether his example has 
prejudiced the nation, we still find that on our stage some- 
thing must be done as well as said, and inactive declama- 
tion is very coldly heard, however musical or elegant, pas- 
sionate or sublime. 

Voltaire expresses his wonder, thai our authour's extrava- 
gances are endured by a nation, which has seen the tragedy 
of Cato. Let him be answered, that Addison speaks the lan- 
guage of poets, and Shakespeare, of men. We find in Cato 
innumerable beauties which enamour us of its authour, but 
we see nothing that acquaints us with human sentiments or 
human actions ; we place it with the fairest and the noblest 
progeny which judgment propagates by conjunction with 
learning, but Othello is the vigorous and vivacious offspring 
of observation impregnated by genius. Cato affords a splea-< 
did exhibition of artificial and fictitious manners, and de- 
livers just and noble sentiments, in diction easy, elevated 
and harmonious, but its hopes and fears communicate no 
vibration to the heart; the composition refers us only to 
the writer; we pronounce the name of Cato, but we think 
on Addison. 

The work of a correct and regular writer is a garden 
accurately formed and diligently planted, varied with shades, 
and scented with flowers; the composition of Shakespeare 
is a forest, in which oaks extend their branches, and pinea 
tower in the air, interspersed sometimes with weeds and 
brambles, and sometimes giving shelter to myrtles and to 
roses; filling the eye with awful pomp, and gratifying the 
mind with endless diversity. Other poets display cabinets 
of precious rarities, minutely finished, wrought into shape, 
and polished into brightness. Shakespeare opens a mine 



TO SHAKESPBARB 230 

whicb eontKins gold and diamonds in unexhaustlble plenty, 
though clouded by incrustations, debased by impurities, and 
mingled with a mass of meaner minerals. 

It has been much disputed, whether Shakespeare owed 
his excellence to his own native force, or whether he had 
the common helps of scholastick education, the precepts of 
critical science, and the examples of ancient authours. 

There has always prevailed a tradition, that Shakespeare 
wanted learning, that he had no regular education, nor much 
skill in the dead languages. Johnson, his friend, affirms, 
that he had small Latin, and no Creek; who, besides that 
he had no imaginable temptation to falsehood, wrote at a 
time when the character and acquisitions of Shakespeare 
were known to multitudes. His evidence ought therefore 
to decide the controversy, unless some testimony of equal 
force could be opposed. 

Some have imagined, that they have discovered deep 
learning in many imitations of old writers; but the ex- 
amples which I have known urged, were drawn from books 
translated in his time; or were such easy coincidences of 
thought, as will happen to all who consider the same sub- 
jects; or such remarks on life or axioms of morality as 
float in conversation, and are transmitted through the world 
in proverbial sentences. 

I have found it remarked, that, in this important sen- 
tence. Go before, I'll folloiti. we read a translation of, / 
prae, sequar. I have been told, that when Caliban, after 
a pleasing dream, says, / cry'd to sleep again, the authour 
imitates Anacrean, who had, like every other man, the same 
wish on the same occasion. 

There are a few passages which may pass for imitations, 
but so few, that the exception only confirms the rule; he 
obtained them from accidental quotations, or by oral com- 
munication, and as he used what he had, would have used 
more if he had obtained it. 

The Comedy of Errors is confessedly taken from the 
Meniechmi of Plautus; from the only play of Ptautus which 
was then in English. What can be more probable, than that 
he who copied that, would have copied more ; but that those 
whicb were not translated weic inaccessible? 



Ml SAMn^. JOHNSON 

Whether he knew the modern languages is uncertain. 
That his plays have some French scenes proves but little; 
he might easily procure them to be written, and probably, 
even though he had known the language in the common 
degree, he could not have written it without assistance. In 
the story of Romeo and Juliet he is observed to have fol- 
lowed the English translation, where it deviates from the 
Italian; but this on the other part proves nothing against 
his knowledge of the original. He was to copy, not what 
he knew himself, but what was known to his audience. 

It is most likely that he had learned LaHn sufficiently to 
make him acquainted with construction, but that he never 
advanced to an easy perusal of the Roman authours. Con- 
cerning his skill in modem languages, I can find no suf- 
ficient ground of determination; but as no imitations of 
French or Italian authours have been discovered, though 
the Italian poetry was then high in esteem, I am inclined 
to believe, that he read little more than English, and chose 
for his fables only such tales as he found translated. 

That much knowledge is scattered over his works is very 
justly observed by Pope, but it is often such knowledge as 
books did not supply. He that will understand Shakespeare, 
must not be content to study him in the closet, he must 
look for his meaning sometimes among the sports of the 
field, and sometimes among the inanufactiires of the shop. 

There is however proof enough that he was a very dili- 
gent reader, nor was our language then so indigent of books, 
but that he might very liberally indulge his curiosity with- 
out excursion into foreign literature. Many of the Roman 
authours were translated, and some of the Greek; the ref- 
ormation had filled the kingdom with theological learning; 
most of the topicks of human disquisition had found English 
writers; and poetry had been cultivated, not only with dili- 
gence, but success. This was a stock of knowledge suf- 
ficient for a mind so capable of appropriating and improv- 
ing it. 

But the greater part of his excellence was the product 

of his own genius. He found the English stage in a state 
of the utmost rudeness; no essays either in tragedy or 
comedy had appeared, from which it could be discovered 



to what degree of delight either one or other might be 
carried. Neither character nor dialogue were yet under- 
stood. Shakespeare may be truly said to have introduced 
them both amongst us, and in some of his happier scenes 
to have carried them both to the utmost height. 

By what gradations of improvement he proceeded, is not 
easily known; for the chronology of his works is yet un- 
settled, Rowe is of opinion, that perhaps we arc not to 
look for his beginning, like those of other writers, in his least 
perfect works; art had so little, and nature so large a share 
in what he did, that for otight I know, says he, the per- 
formances of his youth, as they were Ike most t'igorous, 
were the best. But the power of nature is only the power 
of using to any certain purpose the materials which dili- 
gence procures, or opportunity supplies. Nature gives no 
man knowledge, and when images are collected by study and 
experience, can only assist in combining or applying them. 
Shakespeare, however favoured by nature, could impart only 
what he had learned; and as he must increase his ideals, like 
other mortals, by gradual acquisition, he, like them, grew 
wiser as he grew older, could display life better, as he knew 
it more, and instruct with more efficacy, as he was himself 
mare amply instructed. 

There is a vigilance of observation and accuracy of dis- 
tinction which books and precepts cannot confer; from this 
almost all original and native excellence proceeds, Shake- 
speare must have looked upon mankind with perspicacity, 
in the highest degree curious and attentive. Other writers 
borrow their characters from preceding writers, and diver- 
sify them only by the accidental appendages of present man- 
ners; the dress is a little varied, but the body is the same. 
Our authour had both matter and form to provide; for ex- 
cept the characters of Chaucer, to whom I think he Is not 
much indebted, there were no writers in English, and per- 
haps not many in other modern languages, which shewed 
life in its native colours. 

The contest about the original benevolence or malignity 
of man had not yet commenced. Speculation had not yet 
attempted to analyse the mind, to trace the passions to their 
wurces, to unfold the seminal principles of vice and virtue. 



ttl BAMUHL JOHNSOW 

or sound the depths of the heart for the motiTcs of acdoBj 
All those enquiries, which from that time that hum 
nature became the fashionable study, have been madt 
sometimes with nice discernment, but often with idle sub. 
tilty, were yet unatteropled. The tales, with which the, 
infancy of learning was satisfied, exhibited only the super- 
ficial appearances of action, related the events but omitted' 
tlie causes, and were formed for such as delighted in wonden 
rather than in truth. Mankind was not then to be studied 
in the closet ; he that would know the world, was under tht 
necessity of gleaning his own remarks, by mingling as be 
could in its business and amusements. 

Boyle congratulated himself upon his high birth, because, 
it favoured his curiosity, by facilitating his access. Shakf 
speare had no such advantage ; he came to London a Bcedy 
adventurer, and lived for a time by very mean employment!,. 
Many works of genius and learning have been performed ta 
states of life, that appear very little favourable to thought 
or to enquiry; so many, that he who considers them i 
cllned to think that he sees enterprise and perseverance pre* 
dominating over all external agency, and bidding help Bnd 
hindrance vanish before them. The genius of Skakespeart 
was not to be depressed by the weight of poverty, nor limited 
by the narrow conversation to which men in want ara in- 
evitably condemned; the incumbrances of his fortune wart 
shaken from his mind, as dewdrops from a Uok's mane. 

Though he had so many difficulties to encounter, and ao 
little assistance to surmount them, he has been able to 
obtain an exact knowledge of many modes of life, and man]^ 
casts of native dispositions; to vary them with great mul-t; 
tiplicity; to mark them by nice distinctions: and to shew 
them in full view by proper combinations, In this part o' 
his performances he had none to imitate, but has himself 
been imitated by all succeeding writers; and it may b« 
doubted, whether from all his successors more maxims of 
theoretical knowledge, or more rules of practical prudence, 
can be collected, than he alone has given to his country. 

Nor was his attention confined to the aclions of men; 
he was an exact surveyor of the inanimate world; 
descriptions have always some peculiarities, gathered by 



TO SHAKESPEARE 243 

mplating things as they really exist. It may be observed, 
fliat the oldest poets of many nations preserve their repu- 
tation, and that the following generations of wit, after a 
short celebrity, sink into oblivion. The first, whoever they 
be, must take their sentiments and descriptions immediately 
from knowledge ; the resemblance is therefore just, their 
descriptions are verified by every eye, and their sentiments 
acknowledged by every breast. Those whom their fame in- 
vites to the same studies, copy partly them, and partly nature, 
till the books of one age gain such authority, as to stand 
in the place of nature to another, and imitation, always 
deviating a Httie, becomes at last capricious and casual. 
Shakespeare, whether life or nature be his subject, shews 
plainly, that he has seen with his own eyes; he gives the 
image which he receives, not weakened or distorted by 
the intervention of any other mind; the ignorant feel his 
representations to be just, and the learned see that they are 

Perhaps it would not be easy to find any authour. except 
Homer, who invented so much as Shakespeare, who so much 
advanced the studies which he cuUivated, or effused so much 
novelty upon his age or country. The form, the characters, 
the language, and the shows of the English drama are his. 
He seeitu, says Deunis, to have been Ike very original of our 
English tragical harmony, that is, the harmony of blank 
verse, diversified often by dissyllable and trissyllable termina- 
tions. For the diversity distinguishes it from heroick har- 
mony, and by bringing if nearer to common use makes it 
more proper to gain attention, and more fit for action and 
dialogue. Such verse we make when we are writing prose; 
we make such verse in common conversation. 

I know not whether this praise is rigorously just. The 
dissyllable termination, which the critic rightly appropriates 
to the drama, is to be found, though, I think, not in Gor- 
boduc which is confessedly before our author: yet in 
Hieronnymo, of which the date is not certain, but which 
there is reason to believe at least as old as his earliest plays. 
This however is certain, that he is the first who taught either 
tragedy or comedy to please, there being no theatrical 
fifc^ t>t any older writer, of which the name is known, ex- 



» 
^ 



SASfUEL JOHKSOIV 

cept to aotSqnaries and collectors of books, wbich are sought 
because ihey are scarce, aiid would not have been scarce, 
had they been much esteemed. 

To him we must ascribe the praise, unless Spenser may 
divide it with him, of having first discovered tg how much 
smoothness and harmony the English language could be 
toftcned. He has speeches, perhaps sometimes scenes, which 
have all the delicacy of Rowe, without his effeminacy. He 
endeavours indeed commonly to strike by the force and 
vigour of his dialogue, but he never executes his purpose 
better, than when he tries to sooth by softness. 

Vet it must be at last confessed, that as we owe every 
thing to him, he owes something to us; that, if much of 
hii praise is paid by perception and judgement, much is 
llkewine given by custom and veneration. We fix our eyes 
Upon his graces, and turn them from his deformities, and 
endure in hipn what we should in another loath or despise. 
If we endured without praising, respect for the father of ouf 
drama might excuse us; but I have seen, in the book of some 
modern crilick, a collection of anomalies, which shew that 
lie has corrupted language by every mode of depravation, 
but which hilt admirer has accumulated as a monument of 
litinour. 

He hai scenes of undoubted and perpetual excellence, 
but perhaps not one play, which, if it were now exhibited as 
the work of a contemporary writer, would be heard to 
the conclusion. I am indeed far from thinking, that his 
works were wrought to his own ideas of perfection; 
when they were such as would satisfy the audience, 
they satisfied the writer. It is seldom that authours, 
though more studious of fame than Shakespeare, rise much 
ibove the stnmlard of their ovm age ; to add a little of what 
Is best will always he sufficient for present praise, and 
thojir who find themselves exalted into fame, are willing to 
credit their encoiuinstx, and to gipare the labour of contcnd- 
ItiR with lhem»el\-e». 

It does nol apj^csr. that Shi:)!fspeare thought his works 
Wiirthv of posterity, that he levied any ideal tribute upon 
(ulure limes, or h«d any further prospect, than of present 
popularity and present proSL When his plays had beea 



TO SHAKESPEAEE US 

ted, his hope was at an end; he solicited no addition of 
lonour from the reader. He therefore made no scruple to 
repeat the same jests in many dialogues, or to entangle dif- 
ferent plots by the same knot of perplexity, which may be 
at least forgiven him, by those who recollect, that of Con- 
greve's four comedies, two are concluded by a marriage in 
a mask, by a deception, which perhaps never happened, and 
which, whether likely or not, he did not invent. 

So careless was this great poet of future fame, that, 
though he retired to ease and plenty, while he was yet little 
declined into the vale of years, before he could be disgusted 
with fatigue, or disabled by infirmity, he made no collection 
of his works, nor desired to rescue those that had been al- 
ready published from the depravations that obscured them, 
or secure to the rest a better destiny, by giving them to the 
world in their genuine state. 

Of the plays which bear the name of Shakespeare in the 
late editions, the greater part were not published till about 
seven years after his death, and the few which appeared in 
his life are apparently thrust into the world without the 
care of the authour, and therefore probably without his 
knowledge. 

Of all the publishers, clandestine or professed, their neg- 
ligence and unskilfulness has by the late revisers been 
sufficiently shown. The faults of all are indeed numerous 
and gross, and have not only corrupted many passages per- 
haps beyond recovery, but have brought others into sus- 
picion, which are only obscured by obsolete phraseology, or 
by the writer's unskilfulness and affectation. To alter is 
more easy than to explain, and temerity is a more common 
quality than diligence. Those who saw that they must em- 
ploy conjecture to a certain degree, were willing to indulge 
it a little further. Had the author published his own works, 
we should have sat quietly down to disentangle his in- 
tricacies, and clear his obscurities; but now we tear 
what we cannot loose, and eject what we happen not to 
understand. 

The faults are more than could have happened without the 
concurrence of many causes. The stile of Shakespeare was 
m itself ungrammatical, perplexed and obscure; his works 



MB SAMUEL JOnSSOSI 

were transcribed for the players by those who may be 
supposed (o have seldom understood ihem ; they were trans- 
mitted by copiers equally unskilful, who still multiplied 
en-ours; they were perhaps sometimes mutilated by the 
actors, for the sake of shortening the speeches; and were 
at last printed without correction of the press. 

In this state they remained, not as Or. WarbHrSon sap^ 
poses, because they were unregarded, but because the editor's 
art was not yet applied to modem languages, and our an- 
cestors were accustomed to so much negligence of Engluh 
printers, that they could very patiently endure it. At last an 
edition was undertaken by Rowe; not because a poet was 
to be published by a poet, for Rowe seems to have thought 
very little on correction or explanation, but that oaf 
authour's works might appear like those of his fraternity, 
with the appendages of a life and recommendatory preface. 
Roiee has been clamorously blamed for not performing what 
he did not undertake, and it is time that justice be dona 
him, by confessing, that though he seems to have had no 
thought of corruption beyond the printer's errours. yet 
he has made many emendations, if they were not made bet 
fore, which his successors have received without acknowl- 
edgement, and which, if they had produced them, would have 
filled pages and pages with censures of the stupidity by 
which the faults were committed, with displays of the ab* 
surdities which they involved, with ostentatious expositions 
of the new reading, and self congratulations on the happiness 
of discovering it. 

Of Rowe, as of all the editors, I have preserved tho 
preface, and have likewise retained the authour's life, though 
not written with much elegance or spirit ; it relates however 
what is now to be known, and therefore deserves to pass 
through all succeeding publications. 

The nation had been for many years content enough with 
Mr. Rowe's performance, when Mr. Pope made them afr- 
quainted with the true state of Shakespeare's text, shewed 
that it was extremely corrupt, and gave reason to hope rlut 
there were means of reforming it. He collated the old 
copies, which none had thought to examine before, and re- 
stored many lines to their integrity; but, by x very conk* 



TO SHAKESPEARE 



247 



T^eadious criticism, he rejected whatever he disliked, and 
thought more of amputation than of cure. 

I know not why he is commended by Dr. Warburlon for 

distinguishing the genuine from the spurious plays. In 
this choice he exerted no judgement of his own; the plays 
which he received, were given by Hemings and Condel, 
the first editors; and those which he rejected, though, ac- 
cording to the ''centiousness of the press in those times, 
they were printed during Shakespeare's life, with his 
name, had been omitted by his friends, and were never added 
to his works before the edition of 1664, from which they were 
copied by the later printers. 

This was a work which Pope seems to have thought un- 
worthy of his abilities, being not able to suppress his con- 
tempt of the dull duty of an editor. He understood but 
half his undertaking. The duty of a collator is indeed dull, ., 
yet, like other tedious tasks, is very necessary; but an 
emendatory crilick would ill discharge his duty, without 
qualities very different from dullness. In perusing a cor- 
rupted piece, he must have before him all possibilities of 
meaning, with all possibilities of expression. Such must be 
his comprehension of thought, and such his copiousness of 
language. Out of many readings possible, he must be able 
to select that which best suits with the state, opinions, and 
modes of language prevailing in every age, and with his 
authour's particular cast of thought, and turn of expression. 
Such must he his knowledge, and such his taste. Con- 
jectural criticism demands more than humanity possesses, 
and he that exercises it with most praise has very frequent 
need of indulgence. Let us now be told no more of the dull 
duty of an editor. 

Confidence is the common consequence of success. They 
whose excellence of any kind has been loudly celebrated, arc 
ready to conclude, that their powers are universal. Pope's 
edition fell below his own expectations, and he was so much 

' offended, when he was found to have left any thing for others 
to do, that he past the latter part of his life in a state of 
hostility with verbal criticism. 

I have retained all his notes, that no fragment of so great 

L a writer may be lost;; his preface, valuable alike for elegance 



218 SAMUEL JOHNSON 

of composition and justness of remark, and containing a 
general criticism on his authour, so extensive, that Uttle can 
be added, and so exact, that little can be disputed, every 
editor has an interest to suppress, but that every reader 
would demand its insertion. 

Pope was succeeded by Theobald, a man of narrow coni- 
prehension and small acquisitions, with no native and intrin- 
sick splendour of genius, with little of the artificial light o{ 
learning, but zealous for minute accuracy, and not negligent 
in pursuing it He collated the ancient copies, and rectified 
many errours. A man so anxiously scrupulous might hav« 
been expected to do more, hut what little he did was com- 
monly right. 

In his report of copies and editions he is not to be trusted, 
without examination. He speaks sometimes indefinitely of 
copies, when he has only one. In his enumeration of 
editions, he mentions the two first folios as of high, 
the third folio as of middle authority ; but the truth is, that 
the first is equivalent to all others, and that the rest only 
deviate from it by the printer's negligence. Whoever has 
any of the folios has all, excepting those diversities which 
mere reiteration of editions will produce. I collated them 
all at the beginning, but afterwards used only the first. 

Of his notes I have generally retained those which he 
retained himself in his second edition, except when they 
were confuted by subsequent annoiators, or were too minute 
to merit preservation. I have sometimes adopted his restora- 
tion of a comma, without inserting the panegyrick in which 
he celebrated himself for his atchievement. The exuberant 
excrescence of his diction I have often lopped, his trium- 
phant exultations over Pope and Rowe I have sometimes 
suppressed, and his contemptible ostentation I have fre- 
quently concealed; but I have in some places shewn him, as 
he would have shewn himself, for the reader's diversion, 
that the inflated emptiness of some notes may justify or ex* 
cuse the contraction of the rest. 

Theobald, thus weak and ignorant, thus mean and faith- 
less, thus petulant and ostentatious, by the good luck of hav- 
ing Pope for his enemy, has escaped, and escaped alone, with 
reputation, from this underUking. So willingly docs the 



TO SHAKESPEAHB 



249 



world support those who solicite favour, against those who 
command reverence ; and so easily ts he praised, whom no 
man can envy. 

Our authour fell then into the hands of Sir Thomas 
Hanmer, the Oxford editor, a man, in my opinion, eminently 
qualified by nature for such studies. He had, what is the 
first requisite to emendatory criticism, that intuition by 
which the poet's intention is immediately discovered, and 
that dexterity of intellect which despatches its work by the 
easiest means. He had undoubtedly read much; his ac- 
quaintance with customs, opinions, and traditions, seems tg 
have been large; and he is often learned without shew. He 
seldom passes what he does not understand, without an at- 
tempt to find or to make a meaning, and sometimes hastily 
makes what a little more attention would have found. He 
is solicitous to reduce to grammar, what he could not he 
sure that his authour intended to be grammatical. Shake- 
speare regarded more the series of ideas, than of words; j 
and his language, not being designed for the reader's desk, j 
was all that he desired it to be, if it conveyed his meaning | 
to the audience. 

Hanmer's care of the metre has been too violently cen- 
sured. He found the measures reformed in so many pas- 
sages, by the silent labours of some editors, with the silent 
acquiescence of the rest, that he thought himself allowed to 
extend a little further the license, which had already been 
carried so far without reprehension; and of his corrections 
in general, it must be confessed, that they are often just, and 
made commonly with the least possible violation of the text. 

But, by inserting his emendations, whether invented or 
borrowed, into the page, without any notice of varying copies, 
he has appropriated the labour of his predecessors, and made 
his own edition of little authority. His confidence indeed, 
both in himself and others, was too great; he supposes all 
to be right that was done by Pope and Theobald; he seems 
not to suspect a critick of fallibility, and it was but reason- 
able that he should claim what he so liberally granted. 

As he never writes without careful enquiry and diligent 
consideration, I have received all his notes, and believe that 
cyeiy reader will wish for more. 



MO SAMUEL JOHNSON 

Of the last editor it is more difGcult to speak. Respect ii 
due to high place, tenderness to living reputation, and ven- 
eration to genius and learning.; but he cannot be justly 
offended at that liberty of which he has himself bo frequently 
given an example, nor very solicitous what is thought o£ 
notes, which he ought never to have considered as part * * 
his serious employments, and which, I suppose, since the 
ardour of composition is remitted, he no longer numbers 
among his happy effusions. 

The original and predominant errour of his commentary, 
is acquiescence in his first thoughts ; that precipitation whicU 
is produced by consciousness of quick discernment; and that 
confidence which presumes to do, by surveying the surface 
what labour only can perform, by penetrating the bottom. 
His notes exhibit sometimes perverse interpretations, and 
sometimes improbable conjectures; he at one time gives 
the authour more profundity of meaning, than the sentence 
admits, and at another discovers absurdities, where the senss 
is plain to every other reader. But his emendations ara 
likewise often happy and just; and his interpretation of 
obscure passages learned and sagacious. 

Of his notes, I have commonly rejected those, against 
which the general voice of the publick has exclaimed, or 
which their own incongruity immediately condemns, and 
which, I suppose, the authour himself would desire to bo 
forgotten. Of the rest, to part I have given the highest 
approbation, by inserting the offered reading in the text; 
part I have left to the judgment of the reader, as doubtful, 
though specious; and part I have censured without reserve, 
but I am sure without bitterness of malice, and, I hpp<^ 
without wantonness of insult. 

It is no pleasure to me, in revising my volumes, to observ 
how much paper is wasted in confutation. Whoever con- 
siders the revolutions of learning, and the various questions 
of greater or less importance, upon which wit and reason 
have exercised their powers, must lament the unsuccessful- 
ness of enquiry, and the slow advances of truth, when h« 
reflects, that great part of the labour of every writer is 
only the destruction of tho^e that went before him. The first 
care of the builder of a new system, is to dcmolieh th« 



TO SHAKESPEARE 251 

jiricks which are standing. The chief desire of him that 
""comments an authour, is to shew how much other commen- 
tators have corrupted and obscured him. Tlie opinions 
prevalent in one age, as truths above the reach of con- 
tWversy, are confuted and rejected in another, and rise 
again to reception in remoter times. Thus the human mind 
ja kept in motion without progress. Thus sometimes truth 
and errour, and sometimes contrarieties of errour, take 
each other's place by reciprocal invasion. The tide of 
seeming knowledge which is poured over one generation, 
retires and leaves another naked and barren ; the sudden 
meteors of intelligence which for a while appear to shoot 
their beams into the regions of obscurity, on a sudden 
withdraw their lustre, and leave mortals again to grope 
their way. 

These elevations and depressions of renown, and the con- 
tradictions to which all improvers of knowledge must for 
ever be exposed, since they are not escaped by the highest 
and brightest of mankind, may surely be endured with 
patience by criticks and annotators, who can rank them- 
selves but as the satellites of their authours. How canst 
thou beg for life, says Achilles to his captive, when thou 
knowest that thou art now to suffer only what must another 
day be suffered by AcliillcsF 

Dr. Warbitrton had a name sufficient to confer celebrity 
on those who could exalt themselves into antagonists, and 
his notes have raised a clamour too ioud to be distinct. His 
chief assailants are the authours of the Canons of criticism 
and of the Review of Shakespeare's lext; of whom one 
ridicules bis errours with aii'y petulance, suitable enough to 
the levity of the controversy; the other attacks them with 
gloomy malignity, as if he were dragging to justice an 
assassin or incendiary. The one stings like a fly, sucks a 
little blood, takes a gay flutter, and returns for more; the 
other bites like a viper, and would be glad to leave infiam- 
mations and gangrene behind him. When I think on one, 
with his confederates, I remember the danger of Coriolanus, 
who was afraid that girls with spits, and bays with stones, 
should slay him in puny battle; when the other crosses my 
magiaatioti, I remember the prodigy in Macbeth, 



^ 



SAMUEL JOHNSON 



Let me however do them justice. One is a wit, and one a, 
scholar. They have both shown acuteness suflScient in the 
discovery of faults, and have both advanced some probable 
interpretations of obscure passages; but when they aspire 
to conjecture and emendation, it appears how falsely we all 
estimate our own abilities, and the little which they have 
been able to perform might have taught them more candour 
to the endeavours of others. 

Before Dr, IVarburton's edition. Critical observatimts on 
Shakespeare had been published by Mr. Upton, a man skilled 
in languages, and acquainted with boots, but who seems to 
have had no great vigour of genius or nicety of taste. Many 
of his explanations are curious and useful, but he likewise, 
though he professed to oppose the licentious confidence of 
editors, and adhere to the old copies, is unable to restrain 
the rage of emendation, though his ardour is ill seconded 
by his skill. Every cold erapirick, when his heart is ex- 
panded by a successful experiment, swells into a theorist^ 
and the laborious collator at some unlucky moment frolicks 
in conjecture. 

Critical, historical and explanatory notes have been like- 
wise published upon Shakespeare by Dr. Grey, whose dili- 
gent perusal of the old English writers has enabled him 
to make some useful observations. What he undertook he 
has well enough performed, but as he neither attempts 
judicial nor emendatory criticism, he employs rather bis 
memory than his sagacity. It were to be wished that all 
would endeavour to imitate his modesty who have not been 
able to surpass his knowledge, 

I can say with great sincerity of all my predecessors, what 
I hope will hereafter be said of me, that not one has left 
Shakespeare without improvement, nor is there one to whom 
I have not been indebted for assistance and information. 
Whatever I have taken from them it was my intention to 
refer to its original autbour, and it is certain, that what I 
have not given to another, I believed when I wrote it to be 
my own. In some perhaps I have been anticipated; but if 
I am ever found to encroach upon the remarks of any other 



commentator, I am willing that the honour, be it more or 
less, should be transferred to the first claimant, for his right, 
and his alone, stands above dispute ; the second can prove 
his pretensions only to himself, nor can himself always dis- 
tinguish invention, with sufficient certainty, from recollec- 

They have alJ been treated by me with candour, which 
they have not been careful of observing to one another. It 
is not easy to discover from what cause the acrimony of a 
scholiast can naturally proceed. The subjects to be discussed 
by him are of very small importance; they involve neither 
property nor liberty ; nor favour the interest of sect or party. 
The various readings of copies, and different interpretations 
of a passage, seem to be questions that might exercise the 
wit, without engaging the passions. But, whether it be, that 
smaU things make mean men proud, and vanity catches small 
occasions; or that all contrariety of opinion, even in those 
that can defend it no longer, makes proud men angry; there 
is often found in commentaries a spontaneous strain of in- 
vective and contempt, more eager and venomous than is 
vented by the most furious controvertist in politicks against 
those whom he is hired to defame. 

Perhaps the lightness of the matter may conduce to the 
vehemence of the agency ; when the truth to be investigated 
is so near to inexistence, as to escape attention, its bulk is 
to be enlarged by rage and exclamation: That to which all 
would be indifferent in its original state, may attract notice 
when the fate of a name is appended to it. A commentator 
has indeed great temptations to supply by turbulence what 
he wants of dignity, to beat his little gold to a spacious sur- 
face, to work that to foam which no art or diligence can 
exalt to spirit 

The notes which I have borrowed or written are either 
illustrative, by which difficulties are explained; or judicial 
by which faults and beauties are remarked; or emendatory, 
by which depravations are corrected. 

The explanations transcribed from others, if I do not sub- 
join any other interpretation, I suppose commonly to he 
right, at least I intend by acquiescence to confess, that I 
have nothing better to propose. 



tu SAMUBC vomismr 

After the labours of all the editors, I found many passages 
which appeared to me likely to obstruct the greater number 
gf readers, and thought it my duty to facilitate their passage. 
It is impossible for an expositor not to write too little for 
some, and too much for others. He can only judge what 
is necessary by his own experience ; and how long soever 
he may deliberate, will at last explain many lines which 
the learned will think impossible to be mistaken, and omit 
many for which the ignorant will want his help. These 
are censures merely relative, and must be quietly endured. 
I have endeavoured to be neither superfluously copious, 
nor scrupulously reserved, and hope that I have made 
my authour's meaning accessible to many who before 
were frighted from perusing him. and contributed some- 
thing to the publick, by diffusing innocent and rational 
pleasure. 

The compleat explanation of an authour not systematick 
and consequential, but desultory and vagrant, abounding in 
casual allusions and light hints, is not to be expected from any 
single scholiast. All personal reflections, when names are 
suppressed, must he in a fewr years irrecoverably obliterated; 
and customs, too minute to attract the notice of law, such as 
modes of dress, formalities of conversation, rules of visits, 
disposition of furniture, and practices of ceremony, which 
naturally find places in familiar dialogue, are so fugitive and 
unsubstantial, that they are not easily retained or recovered. 
What can be known, will be collected by chance, from the 
recesses of obscure and obsolete papers, perused commonly 
with some other view. Of this knowledge every man has 
some, and none has much ; but when an authour has engaged 
the publick attention, those who can add any thing to his 
illustration, communicate their discoveries, and time produces 
what had eluded diligence, 

To time I have been obliged to resign many passageSf 
which, though I did not understand them, will perhaps here- 
after be explained, having, I hope, illustrated some, which 
others have neglected or mistaken, sometimes by short re- 
marks, or marginal directions, such as every editor has added 
at his will, and often by comments more laborious than the 
matter will seem to deserve ; but that which is most difficult 



TO SHAKESPEARE Z55 

1 always most important, and to an editor nothing is a 

We by which his authour is obscured. 

The poetical beauties or defects I have not been very dili- 
gent to observe. Some plays have more, and some fewer 
Judicial observations, not in proportion to their difference of 
merit, but because I gave this part of my design to chance 
and to caprice. The reader, I believe, is seldom pleased to 
find his opinion anticipated; it Is natural to delight more in 
what we find or make, than in what we receive. Judgement, 
like other faculties, is improved by practice, and its advance- 
ment is hindered by submission to dictatorial decisions, as 
the memory grows torpid by the use of a table book. Some 
initiation is however necessary; of all skill, part is infused 
by precept, and part is obtained by habit; I have therefore 
shewn so much as may enable the candidate of criticism to 
discover the rest. 

To the end of most plays, I have added short strictures, 
containing a general censure of faults, or praise of excel- 
lence ; in which I know not how much I have concurred 
with the current opinion ; but 1 have not, by any affectation 
of singularity, deviated from it. Nothing is minutely and 
particularly examined, and therefore it is to be supposed, 
that in the plays which are condemned there is much to be 
praised, and in these which arc praised much to be con- 
demned. 

The part of criticism in which the whole succession of 
editors has laboured with the greatest diligence, which has 
occasioned the most arrogant ostentation, and excited the 
keenest acrimony, is the emendation of corrupted passages, 
to which the publick attention having been first drawn by the 
violence of contention between Pope and Theobald, has been 
continued by the persecution, which, with a kind of con- 
spiracy, has been since raised against all the publishers of 
Shakespeare. 

That many passages have passed in a state of deprava- 
tion through all the editions is indubitably certain ; of 
these the restoration is only to be attempted by collation 
of copies or sagacity of conjecture. The collator's province 
is safe and easy, the conjecturcr's perilous and difficult. 
■Yet as the greater part of the plays are extant only in 



^ 



256 SAMUEL JOHNSON 

one copy, the peril must not be avoided, nor the difficult 
refused. 

Of the readings which this emulation of unendment has 
hitherto produced, some from the labours of every publisher 
I have advanced into the text; those are to be considered as 
in my opinion sufficiently supported; some I have rejected 
without mention, as evidently erroneous; some 1 have left in 
the notes without censure or approbation, as resting in 
equipoise between objection and defence; and some, which 
seemed specious but not right, I have inserted with a subse- 
quent animadversion. 

Having classed the observations of others, I was at last to 
try what I could substitute for tlieir mistakes, and how X 
could supply their omissions. I collated such copies : 
could procure, and wished for more, but have not found the 
collectors of these rarities very communicative. Of the 
editions which chance or kindness put into my hands I have 
given an enumeration, that I may not be blamed for neglect* 
ing what I had not the power to do. 

By examining the old copies, I soon found that the latep^ 
publishers, with all their boasts of diligence, suffered many 
passages to stand unauthorised, and contented themselves 
with RoTve's regulation of the text, even where they knew it to 
be arbitrary, and with a little consideration might have found 
it to be wrong. Some of these alterations are only the ejec- 
tion of a word for one that appeared to him more elegant or 
raore intelligible. These corruptions I have often silently 
rectified; for the history of our language, and the true force 
of our words, can only be preserved, by keeping the text of 
authours free from adulteration. Others, and those very 
frequent, smoothed the cadence, or regulated the mea; 
on these I have not exercised the same rigour; if only a 
word was transposed, or a particle inserted or omitted, I 
have sometimes suffered the line to stand; for the ii 
stancy of the copies is such, as that some liberties may be 
easily permitted. But this practice I have not suffered tO' 
proceed far, having restored the primitive diction wherever 
it could for any reason be preferred. 

The emendations, which comparison of copies supplied, 3 
have inserted in the text; sometimes where the itnprovemEnt 



TO SHAKESPEAEE 257 

was slight, without notice, and sometimes with an account of 
the reasons of the change. 

Conjecture, though it be sometimes unavoidable, I have not 
wantonly nor licentiously indulged. It has been my settled 
principle, that the reading of the ancient books is probably 
true, and therefore is not to be disturbed for the sake of 
elegance, perspicuity, or mere improvement of the sense. 
For though much credit is not due to the fidelity, nor any to 
the judgement of the first publishers, yet they who had the 
copy before their eyes were more likely to read it right, than 
we who read it only by imagination. But it is evident that 
they have often made strange mistakes by ignorance or neg- 
ligence, and that therefore something may be properly at- 
tempted by criticism, keeping the middle way between pre- 
sumption and timidity. 

Such criticism I have attempted to practice, and where 
any passage appeared inextricably perplexed, have endeav- 
oured to discover how it may be recalled to sense, with least 
violence. But my first labour is, always to turn the old text 
on every side, and try if there be any interstice, through 
which light can find its way ; nor would Hitefius himself con- 
demn me, as refusing the trouble of research, for the ambi- 
tion of alteration. In this modest industry I have not been 
unsuccessful. I have rescued many lines from the violations 
of temerity, and secured many scenes from the inroads of 
correction. I have adopted the Roman sentiment, that it is 
more honourable to save a citizen, than to kill an enemy, and 
have been more careful to protect than to attack. 

I have preserved the common distribution of the plays 
into acts, though I believe it to be in almost all the plays 
void of authority. Some of those which are divided in the 
later editions have no division in the first folio, and some 
that are divided in the folio have no division in the preced- 
ing copies. The settled mode of the theatre requires four 
intervals in the play, but few, if any, of our authour's com- 
positions can be properly distributed in that manner. An act 
is so much of the drama as passes without intervention of 
time or change of place. A pause makes a new act. In 
every real, and therefore in every imitative action, the in- 
Kr\'als may be more or fewer, the restriction of five acts 
(») Hc— Vol. as 



^ 



m SAHUSL JOHNSOK 

being accidental and arbitrary. This Shakespeare knew; 
and this he practised; his plays were written, and at firs 
printed in one unbroken continuity, and ought now to \ 
exhibited with short pauses, interposed as often as the sceiu 
is changed, or any considerable time is required to ; 
method would at once quell a thousand absurdities 

In restoring the author's works to their integrity, I havi 
considered the punctuation as wholly in my power; for v 
could be their care of colons and commas, who corrupted 
words and sentences. Whatever could be done by adjusting 
points is therefore silently performed, in some plays i 
much diligence, in others with less ; it is hard to keep a bu^ 
eye steadily fixed upon evanescent atoms, or a discursive; 
mind upon evanescent truth. 

The same liberty has been taken with a few particles, 01 
other words of slight effect. I have sometimes inserted o 
omitted them without notice, I have done that s 
which the other editors have done always, and which indee< 
the state of the text may sufficiently justify. 

The greater part of readers, instead of blaming us f 
passing trifles, will wonder that on mere trifles so much \ai 
bour is expended, with such importance of debate, and such 
Golemnity of diction. To these I answer with confidence, thai 
they are judging of an art which they do not understand; ; 
cannot much reproach them with their ignorance, nor prooW 
ise that they would become in general, by learning criticism^ 
more useful, happier or wiser. 

As I practised conjecture more, I learned to trust it less 
and after I had printed a few plays, resolved to insert r 
of my own readings in the text. Upon this caut 
congratulate myself, for every day encreases my doubt ( 
my emendations. 

Since I have confined my imagination to the margin, i| 
must not be considered as very reprehensible, if I have suf- 
fered it to play some freaks in its own dominion. There is i 
danger in conjecture, if it be proposed as conjecture; anj 
while the text remains uninjured, those changes may b«i 
safely offered, which are not considered even by him f 
offers them as necessary or safe. 

If my readings are of little value, they have not beat o 




r ih 



TO SHAKESPEARE S9» 

ttiously displayed or importunately obtruded. I could have 
written longer notes, for the art of writing notes is not of 
difficult attainment. The work is performed, first by railing 
at the stupidity, negligence, ignorance, and asinine tastdess- 
ness of the former editors, and shewing, from all that goes 
before and all that follows, the inelegance and absurdity of 
the old reading; then by proposing something which to 
superficial readers would seem specious, but which the editor 
rejects with indignation ; then by producing the true reading, 
with a long paraphrase, and concluding with loud acclama- 
tions on the discovery, and a sober wish for the advance- 
ment and prosperity of genuine criticism. 

All this may be done, and perhaps done sometimes with- 
out impropriety. But I have always suspected that the read- 
ing is right, which requires many words to prove it wrong; 
and the emendation wrong, that cannot without so much 
labour appear to be right. The justness of a happy restara- 
tion strikes at once, and the moral precept may be well ap- 
plied to criticism, quod dubilas ue jeceris. 

To dread the sliore which he sees spread with wrecks, is 
natural to the sailor. I had before my eye, so many critical 
adventures ended in miscarriage, that caution was forced 
upon me. I encountered in every page Wit struggling with 
its own sophistry, and L,earning confused by the multi- 
plicity of its views. I was forced to censure those whom I 
admired, and could not but reflect, while I was dispossessing 
their emendations, how soon the same fate might happen to 
my own, and how many of the readings which I have cor- 
rected may be by some other editor defended and established. 



Ctilicks, I saw. that other's names efface, 
And fix their own. with labour, in the place; 
Their own, like others, aoon their place resign'd. 
Or dlsappear'd, and left Iho first behind. 

Pope. 



That a conjectural critick should often be mistaken, cannot 
l»e wonderful, either to others or himself, if it be considered, 
that in his art there is no system, no principal and axiomat- 
ical truth that regulates subordinate positions. His chance 
of eriour is renewed at every attempt; an oblique view of 



SAMUEL JOHNSON 

the passage, a slight misapprehension of a phrase, a casual 
inattention to the parts connected, is sufficient to make him 
not only fails, but fail ridiculously; and when he succeeds 
best, he produces perhaps but one reading of many probable, 
and he that suggests another will always be able to dispute 
his claims. 

It is an unhappy state, in which danger is hid under 
pleasure. The allurements of emendation are scarcely re- 
sistible. Conjecture has all the joy and all the pride of in- 
vention, and he that has once started a happy change, is 
too much delighted to consider what objections may rise 
against it. 

Yet conjectural criticism has been of great use in the 
learned world; nor is it my intention to depreciate a study, 
that has exercised so many mighty minds, from the revival of 
learning to our own age, from the Bishop of Aleria to 
English Bentley. The criticks on ancient authours have, in 
the exercise of their sagacity, many assistances, which the 
editor of Shakespeare is condemned to want. They are 
employed upon grammatical and settled languages, whose 
construction contributes so much to perspicuity, that Homer 
has fewer passages unintelligible than Chaucer. The words 
have not only a known regimen, but invariable quantities, 
which direct and confine the choice. There are commonly 
more manuscripts than one; and they do not often conspire 
in the same mistakes. Yet Scaliger could confess to Sal- 
masius bow little satisfaction his emendations gave him. 
Illuduttt nobis conjeclurte nostra, quorum nos pudet, postea- 
quant in meliores codices incidimus. And Lipsius could 
complain, that criticks were making faults, by trying to 
remove them, Ut olitn vitHs, ita nunc remediis laboratur. 
And indeed, ■where mere conjecture is to be used, the emenda- 
tions of Scaliger and Lipsius, notwithstanding their wonder- 
ful sagacity and erudition, are often vague and disputable, 
like mine or Theobald's. 

Perhaps I may not be more censured for doing wrong, than 
for doing little ; for raising in the publick expectations, whidi 
at last I have not answered. The expectation of ignorance 
is indefinite, and that of knowledge is often tyrannical It 
is hard to satisfy those who know not what to demand, os 



TO SHAKESPEARE 

those who demand by design what they think impossible lo 
be done. I have indeed disappointed no opinion more than 
my own ; yet I have endeavoured to perform my task with 
no slight solicitude. Not a single passage in the whole work 
has appeared to me corrupt, which I have not attempted to 
restore; or obscure, which I have not endeavoured to illus- 
trate. In many I have failed like others; and from many, 
after all my efforts, I have retreated, and confessed the re- 
pulse. I have not passed over, with afifected superiority, 
what is equally difficult to the reader and to myself, but 
where I could not instruct him, have owned my ignorance. 
I might easily have accumulated a mass of seeming learn- 
ing upon easy scenes ; but it ought not to be imputed to neg- 
ligence, that, where nothing was necessary, nothing has been 
done, or that, where others have said enough, I have said no 
more. 

Notes are often necessary, but they are necessary evils. 
Let him, that is yet unacquainted with the powers of Shake- 
speare, and who desires to feel the highest pleasure that the 
drama can give, read every play from the first scene to the 
last, with utter negligence of all his commentators. When 
his fancy is once on the wing, let it not stoop at correction or 
explanation. When his attention is strongly engaged, let it 
disdain alike to turn aside to the name of Theobald and of 
Pope. Let him read on through brightness and obscurity, 
through integrity and corruption; let him preserve his com- 
prehension of the dialogue and his interest in the fable. 
And when the pleasures of novelty have ceased, let him at- 
tempt exactness, and read the commentators. 

Particular passages are cleared by notes, but the general 
effect of the work is weakened. The mind is refrigerated by 
interruption ; the thoughts are diverted from the principal 
subject; the reader is weary, he suspects not why; and at 
last throws away the book, which he has too diligently 
studied. 

Parts are not to be examined till the whole has been sur- 
veyed; there is a kind of intellectual remoteness necessary 
for the comprehension of any great work in its full design 
and its true proportions; a close approach shews the smaller 
es, but the beauty of the whole is discerned no longer. 



I 



BAMtTEL JOHNSON 

It is not very grateful to consider how little (He soccessTow 
editors has added to this anthour's power of pleasing. 
He was read, admired, studied, and imitated, while he wa^ 
yet deformed with all the improprieties which ignorance and 
neglect could accumulate upon him; while the reading was 
yet not rectified, nor his allusions understood; yet then did 
Dryden pronounce " that Shakespeare was the man, who, 
of all modern and perhaps ancipnt poets, had the largest and 
most comprehensive soul." All the images of nature were 
Gtill present to him, and he drew them not laboriously, but 
luckily: when he describes any thing, you more than see 
it, you feel it too. Those who accuse him to have wanted 
learning, give him the greater commendation: he was 
naturally learned: he needed not the spectacles of books to 
read nature; he looked inwards, and found her there. I 
cannot say he is every where alike; were he so, I should do 
him injury to compare him with the greatest of mankind. 
He is many times fiat and insipid; his cotnick wit degenerat- 
ing into clenches, his serious swelling into bombast. But 
he is always great, when some great occasion is presented (o 
him: No man can say, he ever had a fit subject for his 
wit, and did not then raise himself as high above the rest 
of poets, 

" Quaotum lenta soleot inter wliurna cupresBi." 

It is to be lamented, that such a writer should want A 
commentary; that his language shouid become obsolete, or 
his sentiments obscure. But it is vain to carry wishes be- 
yond the condition of human things; that which must hap- 
pen to all, has happened to Shakespeare, by accident and 
time ; and more than has been suffered by any other writer 
since the use of types, has been suffered by hiiq through 
hit own negligence of fame, or perhaps by that superiority 
of mind, which despised its own performances, when it 
compared them with its powers, and judged those works 
unworthy to be preserved, which the criticks of follow* 
ing ages were to coniend for the fame of restoring am} 
explaining. 

Among these candidates of infcriour fame, I am DOW M 



TO SHAKESPEARE 169 

Stand the judgment of the publick; and wish that I could 
confidently produce my commentary as equal to the en- 
couragement which I have had the honour of receiving. 
Every work of this kind is by its nature deficient, and I 
should feel little solicitude about the sentence, were it to 
be pronounced only by the skilful and the learned. 



INTRODUCTION 
TO THE PROPYLAEN 

BY J. W. VON GOETHE. (1798) 

THE youth, when Nature and Art attract him, thinks 
that with a vigorous efTorl he can soon penetrate into 
the innermost sanctuary; the man, after long wander- 
ings, finds himself still in the outer court 

Such an observation has suggested our title. It is only on 
the step, in the gateway, the entrance, the vestibule, the 
space between the outside and the inner chamber, betweoi 
the sacred and the common, that we may ordinarily tarty 
with our friends. 

If the word Propylaea recalls particularly the structure 
through which was reached the citadel of Athens and the 
temple of Minerva, this is not inconsistent with our purpose; 
but the presumption of intending to produce here a similar 
work of art and splendor should not be laid to our charge. 
The name of the place may be understood as symbolizing what 
might have happened there; one may expect conversations 
and discussions such as would perhaps not be unworthy of 
that plae 

Are lot thinkers, scholars, artists, in their best hours al- 
lured to those regions, to dwell (at least in imagination) 
among a people to whom a perfection which we desire but 
never attain was natural, among whom in the course of time 
and life, a culture developed in a beautiful continuity, which 
to us appears only in passing fragments ? What modem nation 

The Propylitn wis a periodical faunded Id Jaly. 1798. by Goethe ud I 
bis Iri»nd Heinriih Meyer. During iU jhorl — !" -' -i- — -— 

there were published in it, besidei the writingi 
tribulions hy Sthillet and Humboldt, " 



s «nd meihods of a 



I this notable iatraduciiDD 
hi! fundamenlfll ide«» on 
3 made exprettly for the 



INTRODUCTION TO PROPYLXEN 2SS 

does not owe its artistic culture to the Greeks, and, in cer- 
tain branches, what nation more than the German? 

So much by way of excuse for the symbolic title, if indeed 
an excuse be necessary. May the title be a reminder that 
we are to depart as little as possible from classic ground; 
may it, through its brevity and signification, modify the de- 
mands of the friends of art whom we hope to interest 
through the present work, which is to contain observations 
and reflections concerning Nature and An by a harmonious 
circle of friends, 

,He who is called to be an artist will give careful heed to 
everything around him; objects and their parts will attract 
his attention, and by making practical use of such experience 
he will gradually train himself to observe more sharply. He 
will, in his early career, apply everything, so far as possible, 
to his own advantage; later he will gladly make himself 
serviceable to others. Thus we also hope to present and 
relate to our readers many things which we regard as useful 
and agreeable, things which, under various circumstances, 
have been noted by us during a number of years. 

But who will not willingly agree that pure observation is 
more rare than is believed? We are apt to confuse our sensa- 
tions, our opinion, our judgment, with what we experience, so 
that we do not remain long in the passive attitude of the ob- 
server, but soon go on to make reflections; and upon these no 
greater weight can be placed than may be more or less 
justified by the nature and quality of our individual intel- 
lects. 

In this matter we are able to gain stronger confidence 
from our harmony with others, and from the knowledge that 
we do not think and work alone, but in common. The per- 
plexing doubt whether our method of thought belongs only 
to us — a doubt which often comes over us when others ex- 
press the direct opposite of our convictions — is softened, 
even dispelled, when we find ourselves in agreement with 
Others; only then do we go on rejoicing with assurance in 
the possession of those principles which a long experience, 
on our own part and on the part of others, has gradually 
confirmed. 

When several persons thus live united, so that they may^ 



GOETHE 

e another friends, because they have a common Interest 
1 bringing about their progressive cultivation and in advan- 
cing towards closely related aims, then they may be certain 
tliat they will meet again in the most varied ways, and that 
even the courses which seamed to separate them froni one an- 
other will nevertheless soon bring them happily together again. 

Who has not experienced what advantages are afforded 
in such cases by conversation ? But conversation is ephemer- 
al ; and while the results of a mutual development are imper- 
ishable, the memory of the means by which it was reached 
disappears. Letters preserve better the stages of a progress 
which friends achieve together; every moment of growth is 
fixed, and if the result attained affords us agreeable satis- 
faction, a look backward at the process of development is 
instructive since it permits us to hope for an unflagging ad- 
vance in the future. 

Short papers, in which are set down from time to time one's 
thoughts, convictions, and wishes, in order to find entertain- 
ment in one's past self after a lapse of time, are excellent 
auxiliary means for the development of oneself and of 
Others, none of which should be neglected when one con- 
siders the brief period allotted to life and the many obstacles 
that stand in the way of every advance. 

It is self evident that we are talking here particularly of 
an exchange of ideas between such friends as are striving for 
cultivation in the sphere of science and art; although life 
in the world of affairs and industry should not lack similar 
advantages. 

In the arts and sciences, however, in addition to this dose 
association among their votaries, a relation to the public is 
as favorable as it is necessary. Wliatever of universal inter- 
est one thinks or accomplishes belongs to the world, and the 
world brings to maturity whatever it can utilize of the efforts 
of the individual. The desire for approval which the author 
feels is an impulse implanted by Nature to draw him toward 
something higher ; he thinks he has attained the laurel wreath, 
but soon becomes aware that a more laborious training of 
every native talent is necessary in order to retain the public 
favor ; though it may be attained for a short moment throi^^ 
iortune or accideat also. 




INTRODUCTION TO PROPTLAEN 




> relation of the author to his public is important in 
early period ; even in later days he cannot dispense with 
it. However little he may be fitted to teach others, he 
wishes to share his thoughts with those whom he feels c 
genial, but who are scattered far and wide in the world. By 
this means he wishes to re-establish his relation with his old 
friends, to continue it with new ones, and to gain in the 
younger generation still others for the remainder of his life. 
He wishes to spare youth the circuitous paths upon which 
he himself went astray, and while observing and utilizing the 
advantages of the present, to maintain the memory of his 
praiseworthy earlier efforts. 

With this serious view, a small society has been brought 
together; may cheerfulness attend our undertakings, and 
time may show whither we are bound. 

The papers which we intend to present, though they are 
composed by several authors, will, it is hoped, never be con- 
tradictory in the main points, even though the methods of 
thought may not be the same in all. No two persons regard 
the world in exactly the same way, and different characters 
will often apply in different ways a principle which they all 
acknowledge. Indeed, a person is not always consistent with 
himself in his views and judgments : early convictions must 
give way to later ones. The individual opinions that a man 
holds and expresses may stand all tests or not; the main thing 
is that he continue on his way, true to himself and to others I 

Much as the authors wish and hope to be in harmony with 
one another and with a large part of the public, they must 
not shut their eyes to the fact that from various quarters 
many a discord will ring out. They must expect this all thd 
more since they differ from prevailing opinions iti morB 
than one point. Though far from wishing to dominate or 
change the way of thinking of a tliird person, still they will 
firmly express their own opinion, and, as circumstances dic- 
tate, will avoid or take up a quarrel. On the whole, however, 
they will adhere to one creed, and especially will they repeat 
again and again those conditions which seem to them indis- 
pensable in the training of an artist. Whoever takes an in- 
terest in this matter, must be ready to take sides; otherwise 
he does not deserve to be effective anywhere. 




GOETHE 

If, therefore, we promise to present reflections and ob- 
servations coocerning Nature, we must 3t the same time 
indicate that these remarks will chiefly have reference, first, 
to plastic art ; then, to art in general ; finally, to the general 
training of the artist. 

The highest demand that is made on an artist is this: that 
he be true to Nature, study her, imitate her, and produce 
something that resembles her phenomena. How great, how 
enormous, this demand is, is not always kept in mind; and 
the true artist himself leams it by experience only, m the 
course of his progressive development. Nature is separated 
from Art by an enormous chasm, which genius itself is unable 
to bridge without external assistance. 

All that we perceive around us is merely raw material; if 
it happens rarely enough that an artist, through instinct and 
taste, through practice and experiment, reaches the point of 
attaining the beautiful exterior of things, of selecting the 
best from the good before him, and of producing at least an 
agreeable appearance, it is still more rare, particularly in 
modem times, for an artist to penetrate into the depths of 
things as well as into the depths of his own soul, in order to 
produce in his works not only something light and superfi- 
cially effective, but, as a rival of Nature, to produce some- 
thing spiritually organic, and to give his work of art a con- 
tent and a form through which it appears both natural and 
beyond Nature. 

Man is the highest, the characteristic subject of plastic 
art; to understand him, to extricate oneself from the laby- 
rinth of his anatomy, a general knowledge of organic nature 
is imperative. The artist should also acquaint himself 
theoretically with inorganic bodies and with the general 
operations of Nature, particularly if, as in the case of sound 
and color, they are adaptable to the purposes of art; but 
what a circuitous path he would be obliged to take if he 
wanted to seek laboriously in the schools of the anatomist, 
the naturalist, and the physicist, for that which serves his 
purposes! It is, indeed, a question whether he would find 
there what must be most important for him. Those men have 
the entirely different needs of their own pupils to satisfy, so 
that they cannot be expected to think of the limited and 



INTRODUCTION TO PROPYLSeN 869 

special needs of the artist. For that reason it is our inten- 
tion to take a hand, and, even though we cannot see pros- 
pects of completing the necessary work ourselves, both to 
give a view of the whole and to begin the elaboration of 
details. 

The human figure cannot be understood merely through 
observation of its surface; the interior must be laid bare, 
its parts must be separated, the connections perceived, the 
dififerences noted, action and reaction observed, the con- 
cealed, constant, and fundamental elements of the phenomena 
impressed on the mind, if one really wishes to contemplate 
and imitate what moves before our eyes in living waves as 
a beautiful, undivided whole. A glance at the surface of a 
living being confuses the observer; we may cite here, as in 
other cases, the tnie proverb, " One sees only what one 
knows." For Just as a short-sighted man sees more clearly 
an object from which he draws back than one to which he 
draws near, because his intellectual vision comes to his aid, 
so the perfection of observation really depends on knowl- 
edge. How well an expert naturalist, who can also draw, 
imitates objects by recognizing and emphasizing the import- 
ant and significant parts from which is derived the character 
of the whole! 

Just as the artist is greatly helped by an exact knowledge 
of the separate parts of the human figure, which he must 
in the end regard again as a whole, so a general view, a side 
glance at related objects, is highly advantageous, provided 
the artist is capable of rising to ideas and of grasping the 
close relationship of things apparently remote. Comparative 
anatomy has prepared a general conception of organic 
creatures; it leads us from form to form, and by observing 
organisms closely or distantly related, we rise above them 
all to see their characteristics in an ideal picture. If we 
keep this picture in mind, we find that in observing objects 
our attention takes a definite direction, that scattered facts 
can he learned and retained more easily by comparison, that 

I in the practice of art we can finally vie with Nature only 

when we have learned from her, at least to some extent, her 

I method of procedure in the creation of her works. 

^^^^^ Furthermore, we woidd encourage the artist to gain 



knowledge also af the inorganic world; this can be done all 
tfae more easily since now we can conveniently and quickly 
acquire knowledge of the mineral kingdom. The painter 
needs some knowledge of stones in order to imitate their 
characteristics; the sculptor and architect, in order to otilize 
them; the cutter of precious stones cannot be without a 
knowledge of their nature; the connoisseur and amateur, 
too, will strive for such information. 

Now that we have advised the artist to gain a conception 
of the general operations of Nature, in order to become 
acquainted with those which particuJarly interest him, partly 
to develop himself in more directions, partly to understand 
better that which concerns him ; wc shall add a few further 
remarks on this significant point 

Up to the present the painter has been able merely 6} 
wonder at the physicist's theory of colors, without gaining 
any advantage from it. Tlie natural feeling of the artist, 
however, constant training, and a practical necessity led 
him into a way of his own. He felt the vivid contrasts out 
of the union of which harmony of color arises, he designated 
certain characteristics through approximate sensations, he 
had warm and cold colors, colors which express proximity, 
others which express distance, and what not ; and thus in his 
own way he brought these phenomena closer to the most gen- 
eral laws of Nature. PerhapE the supposition is confirmed 
that the operations of Nature in colors, as well as mag- 
netic, electric, and other operations, depend upon a mutual 
relation, a polarity, or whatever else we might call the two- 
fold or manifold aspects of a distinct unity. 

We shall make it our duty to present this matter in detail 
and in a form comprehensible to the artist; and we can be 
the more hopeful of doing something welcome to him. since 
We shall be concerned only with explaining and tracing to 
fundamental principles things which he has hitherto done 
by instinct. 

So much for what we hope to impart in regard to Nature; 
now for what is most necessary in regard to Art, 

Since the arrangement of this work proposes the presen- 
tation of single treatises, some of these only in part, and 
wnce it Is not our dc«ire to dissect a whole, but rather to 




INTRODUCTIOK TO PROPYLXEN 

build up a whole from many parts, it will be necessary to 
present, as soon as possible and in a general summary, those 
things which the reader will gradually find unfolded in our 
detailed elaborations. We shall, therefore, be occupied first 
with an essay on plastic art, in which the familiar rubrics 
will be presented according to our interpretation and method. 
Here it will be our main concern to emphasize the import- 
ance of every branch of Art, and to show that the artist 
must not neglect a single one, as has unfortunately often 
happened, and still happens. 

Hitherto we have regarded Nature as the treasure chamber 
of material in general; now, however, we reach the import- 
ant point where it is shown how Art prepares its materials 
for itself. 

When the artist takes any object of Nature, the object no 
longer belongs to Nature; indeed, we can say that the artist 
creates the object in that moment, by extracting from it all 
that is significant, characteristic, interesting, or rattier by 
putting into it a higher value. In this way finer proportions, 
nobler forms, higher characteristics are, as it were, forced 
upon the human figure; the circle of regularity, perfection, 
signification, and completeness is drawn, in which Nature 
gladly places her best possessions even though elsewhere in 
her vast extent she easily degenerates into ugliness and loses 
herself in indifference. 

The same is true of composite works of art, of their sub- 
ject and content, whether the theme be fable or history. 
Happy the artist who makes no mistake in undertaking the 
worlc, who knows how to choose, or rather to determine 
what Is suitable for art! He who wanders uneasily among 
scattered myths and far-stretching history in search of a 
theme, he who wishes to be significantly scholarly or allcgor- 
ically interesting, will often be checked in the midst of his 
work by unexpected obstacles, or will miss his finest aim after 
the completion of the work. He who does not speak clearly 
to the senses, will not address himself clearly to the mind; 
and we regard this point as so important, that we insert at 
the very outset a more extended discussion of it. 

A theme having been happily found or invented, it is sub- 
jected to treatment which we would divide into the spiritual. 



the sensuous, and the mechanical. The spiritual develops 
tile subject according to its inner relations, it discovers sub- 
ordinate motives; and, if we can at all judge the depth of an 
artistic genius by the choice of subject, we can recognize in 
his selection of themes his breadth, wealth, fullness, and 
power of attraction. The sensuous treatment we should 
define as that through which the work becomes thoroughly 
comprehensible to the senses, agreeable, delightful, and 
irresistible through its gentle charm. The mechanical treat- 
ment, finally, is that which works upon given material 
through any bodily organ, and thus brings the work into 
existence and gives it reality. 

While we hope to be useful to the artist in this way, and 
earnestly wish that he may avail himself of advice and of 
suggestions in his work, the disquieting observation is forced 
upon us that every undertaking, like every man, is likely to 
suffer just as much from its period as it is to derive occa- 
sional advantage from it. and in our own case we cannot 
altogether put aside the question concerning the reception 
we are likely to meet with. 

Everything is subject to constant change, and since certain 
things cannot exist side by side, they displace one another. 
This is true of kinds of knowledge, of certain methods of 
instruction, of methods of representation, and of maxims. 
The aims of men remain nearly always the same r they still 
desire to become good artists or poets as they did centuries 
ago; but the means through which the goal is reached are 
not clear to everybody, and why should it be denied that 
nothing would be more agreeable than to he able to carry 
out joyfully a great design? 

Naturally the public has a great influence upon Art, since 
in return for its approval and its money it demands work 
that may give satisfaction and immediate enjoyment; and 
the artist will for the most part be ^lad to adapt himself to 
it, for he also is a part of the public, he has received his 
training during the same years, he feels the same needs, 
strives in the same direction, and thus moves along happily 
with the multitude which supports him and which is invigor- 
ated by him. In this matter we see whole nations and 
epochs delighted by their artists, just as the artist sees him- 





INTRODUCTION TO PROPYLXEN 

^t reflected in his nation and his epoch, without either 
liaving even the slightest suspicion that their path might not 
be right, that their taste might be at least one-sided, their 
art on the decline, and their progress in the wrong direction. 

Instead of proceeding to further generalities on this poin^ 
we shall make a remark which refers particularly to plastic 
art 

For the German artist, in fact for modem and northern 
artists in general, it is difficult — indeed almost impossible — to 
make the transition from formless matter to form, and to 
maintain himself at that point, even should he succeed in 
reaching it. Let every artist who has lived for a time in Italy 
ask himself whether the presence of the best works of an- 
cient and modern art have not aroused in him the incessant 
endeavour to study and imitate the human figure in its pro- 
portions, forms, and characteristics, to apply all diligence 
and care in the execution in order to approach those artistic 
works, so entirely complete in themselves, in order to pro- 
duce a work which, in gratifying the sense, exalts the spirit 
to the greatest heights. Let him also admit, however, that 
after his return he must gradually relax his efforts, because 
he finds few persons who will really see, enjoy, and com- 
prehend what is depicted; but, for the most part, finds only 
those who look at a work superficially, receive from it mere 
random impressions, and in some way of their own try to 
get out of it any kind of sensation and pleasure. 

The worst picture can appeal to our senses and imagination 
by arousing their activity, setting them free, and leaving 
them to themselves; the best work of art also appeals to 
our senses, but in a higher language which, of course, we 
must understand; it enchains the feelings and imagination; 
it deprives us of caprice, we cannot deal with a perfect work 
at our will ; we are forced to give ourselves up to it. in order 
to receive ourselves from it again, exalted and refined. 

That these are no dreams we shall try to show gradually, 
in detail, and as clearly as possible; we shall call attention 
particularly lo a contradiction in which the moderns are 
often involved. They call the ancients their teachers, they 
acknowledge in their works an unattainable excellence, yet 
y depart both in theory and practice far from the i 



M oocms 

which tbe andents continuaUy observed. In starliiigr from 
this important point and in returning to it often, we fhatl 
find otliers about which something falls to be said. 

One of the principal signs of the decay of art is the mix- 
ture of its various kinds. The arts themselves, as well as 
their branches, are related to one another, and have a cer- 
tain tendency to unite, even to lose themselves in one an- 
other ; but it is in this that the duty, the merit, the dignity of 
the real artist consists, namely, in being able to separate Hie 
field of art in which he works from others, in placing every 
art and every branch of art on its own footing, and in isolat- 
ing it as far as possible. 

It has been noticed that all plastic art strives toward 
painting, all literary art toward the drama, and this observa- 
tion may in the future give us occasion for important reflec- 
tions. 

The genuine law-giving artist strives for the truth of art, 
the lawless artist who follows a blind impulse strives for 
the reality of Nature; through the former, art reaches its 
highest summit, through the latter its lowest stage. 

What holds good of art in general holds good also of the 
kinds of art. The sculptor must think and feel differently 
from the painter, indeed he must proceed when he wishes 
to produce a work in relief, in a different fashion from that 
which he will employ for a work in the round. By the raising 
of low reliefs higher and higher, by the making of various 
parts and figures stand out completely, and finally by the 
adding of buildings and landscapes, so that work was pro- 
duced which was half painting and half puppet-show, true 
art steadily declined. Excellent artists of modern times have 
tin fortunately pursued this course. 

When in the future we express such maxims as we think 
sound, we should like, since they are deduced from works o£ 
art, to have them put to the test of practice by the artist. 
How rarely one can come to a theoretical agreement vrith 
anyone else on a fundamental principle. That which is ap- 
plicable and useful, on the other hand, is decided upon much 
more quickly. How often we see artists in embarrassment 
over the choice of subjects, over the general type of composi- 
tioD adapted to their art, and the dcUilcd arrangement; how 



INTRODUCTION TO PHOPYI.AEN 



27S 



! the painter over tlie choice of colors! Then Is the 
test a principle, then will it be easier to decide 
whether it is bringing us closer to the great models and to 
everything that we value and love in them, or whether it 
leaves us entangled in the empirical confusion of an experi- 
ence that has not been sufficiently thought out. 

If such maxims hold good in training the artist, in guiding 
him in many an embarrassment, they will serve also in the de- 
velopment, valuation, and judgment of old and new works 
of art, and will in turn arise from an observation of these 
Works, Indeed, it is a!l the more necessary to adhere to 
this, because, notwithstanding the universally praised excel- 
lences of antiquity, individuals and whole nations among 
the moderns often fail to recognize wherein hes the highest 
excellence of those works. 

An exact test will protect us best from this evil. For 
that reason let us cite only one example to show what 
usually happens to the amateur in plastic art, so that we may 
make clear how necessary it is that criticism of ancient as 
well as modern works should be exact if it is to be of any 
use. 

Upon him who has an eye for beauty, though untrained, 
even a blurred, imperfect plaster cast of an excellent an- 
tique will always have a great effect; for in such a repro- 
duction there always remain the idea, the simplicity and 
greatness of form, in short, the general outlines; as much, 
at all events, as one could perceive with poor eyes at a 
distance. 

It may be noticed that a strong inclination toward art is 
often enkindled hy such quite imperfect reproductions. But 
the effect is like the object; it is rather that an obscure in- 
definite feeling is aroused, than that the object in al! its 
worth and dignity really appears to such beginners in art. 
These are they who usually express the theory that too 
minute a critical investigation destroys the enjoyment, who 
are accustomed to oppose and resist regard for details. 

If gradually, however, after further experience and train- 
ing, they are confronted with a sharp cast instead of a 
blurred one, an original instead of a cast, their pleasure 
grows with their insigbt, and increases when the originals 



themselves, the perfect originals, finally become known to 
them. 

The labyrinth of exact observations is willingly entered 
when the details as well as the whole are perfect; indeed 
one learns to realize that the excellences can be appreciated 
only in proportion as the defects arc perceived. To dis- 
criminate the restoration from the genuine parts, and the 
copy from the original, to see in the smallest fragments the 
mined glory of the whole — this is the joy of the finished 
expert; and there is a great difference between observing 
and comprehending an imperfect whole with obscured 
vision, and a perfect whole with clear vision. 

He who concerns himself with any branch of knowledge, 
should strive for the highest! Insight is different from 
practice, for in practical work everyone must soon resign 
himself to the fact that only a certain measure of strength 
is alloted to him; far more people, however, are capable 
of knowledge and insight. Indeed, one may well say that 
everyone is thus capable who can deny himself and subordi- 
nate himself to external objects, everj-one who does not 
strive with rigid and narrow-minded obstinacy to impose 
upon the highest works of Nature and Art his own person- 
ality and his petty onesideness. 

To speak of works of art fitly and with true benefit to 
oneself and others, the discussion should take place only in 
the presence of the works themselves. Everything depends 
on the objects being in view; on whether something abso- 
lutely definite is suggested by the word with which one 
hopes to illuminate the work of art; for, otherwise, nothing 
is thought of at all. This is why it so often happens that the 
writer on art dwells merely on generalities, through which, 
indeed, ideas and sensations are aroused in all readers, but 
no satisfaction is given to the man who, book in hand. 
Steps in front of the work of art itself. Precisely on this 
account, however, we may in several essays be in a position 
to arouse rather than to satisfy the desire of the readers; 
for nothing is more natural than that they should wish to 
have before their eyes immediately an excellent work of art 
which is minutely dissected, in order to enjoy the whole 
which we are discussing, and, so far as the parts are con- 



cerned, to subject to their own judgment the opinion which 
they read. 

While the authors, however, write on the assumption that 
their readers either have seen the works, or will see them in 
the future, yet they hope to do everything in their power for 
those who are in neither case. We shall mention reproduc- 
tions, shall indicate where casts of antique works of art and 
antique works themselves are accessible, particularly to 
Germans; and thus try. as far as we can, to minister to the 
genuine love and knowledge of art. 

A history of art can be based only upon the highest and 
most detailed comprehension of art ; only when one knows the 
finest things that man can produce can one trace the 
psychological and chronological course taken in art, as in 
other fields. This course began with a limited activity, 
busied about a dry and even gloomy imitation of the in- 
Bignificant as well as the significant, whence developed a 
more amiable, more kindly feeling toward Nature, till finally, 
tinder favorable circumstances, accompanied by knowledge, 
regularity, seriousness, and severity, art rose to its height. 
There at last it became possible for the fortunate genius, 
surrounded by all these auxiliaries, to produce the charming 
and the complete. 

Unfortunately, however, works of art with such ease of 
expression, which instil into man cheerfulness, freedom, and 
a pleasant feeling of his own personality, arouse in the 
striving artist the idea that the process of production is also 
agreeable. Since the pinnacle of what art and genius pro- 
duce is an appearance of ease, the artists who come after 
are tempted to make things easy for themselves, and to work 
{or the sake of appearances. Thus art gradually declines 
from its high position, as to the whole as well as details. 
But if we wish to gain a fair conception, we must come 
down to details of details, an occupation not always agreeable 
or charming, but by and by richly rewarded with a more 
certain view of the whole. 

If the experience of observing ancient and mediaeval 
works of art has shown us that certain maxims hold good 
we need these most of all in judging the most recent modern 
productions; for, since personal relations, love and hatred of 



vn 



COBTHE 



individuals, favor or disfavor of the multitude so easily 
enter into the valuation of living or recently deceased artists, 
we are in all the more need of principles in order to pass 
judgment on our contemporaries. The inquiry can be con- 
ducted in two ways: by diminishing the influence of caprice; 
by bringing the question before a higher tribunal. The 
principle can be tested as well as its application; and even 
if we should not agree, the point in dispute can still be 
definitely and clearly pointed out. 

Especially should we wish that the vivifying artist, fa 
whose works we might perhaps have found something to 
remember, might test our judgments carefully in this way; 
for everyone who deserves this name is forced in our times 
to form, as a result of his work and his rellections, a theory, 
or at least a certain conception of theoretical means, by the 
use of which he gets along tolerably well in a variety of 
cases. It will often be noticed, however, that Jn this way 
he sets up as laws such maxims as are in accordance with his 
talent, his inclination, and his convenience. He is subject 
to a fate that is common to all mankind. How many act in 
this very way in other fields! But we are not cultivating 
ourselves when we merely set in motion with ease and con- 
venience that which lies in us. Every artist, like every man, 
is only an individual, and will always lean to one side. For 
that reason, man should pursue so far as possible, both theo- 
retically and practically, that which is contrary to his nature. 
Let the easy-going seek what is serious and severe; let the 
stern keep before his eyes the light and agreeable; the 
strong, loveliness; the amiable, strength; and everyone will 
develop his own nature the more, the farther he seems to 
femove himself from it. Every art requires the whole man; 
the highest possible degree of art requires all mankind. 

The practice of the plastic arts is mechanical, and the 
training of the artist rightly begins in his earliest youth 
with the mechanical side; the rest of his education, on the 
other hand, is often neglected, for it ought to be far more 
careful than the training of others who have opportunity 
of deriving advantage from life itself. Society soon makes 
a rough person courteous, a business life makes the most 
•imple persoa prudent; literary labors, which through pride 




INTRODUCTION TO PROPYLSEN 




me before a great public, find opposition and correction 
"ererywhere i only the plastic artist is, for the most part, 
limited to a lonely workshop; he has dealings almost solely 
with the man who orders and pays for his labor, with a puV 
lic which frequently follows only certain morbid impres- 
sions, with connoisseurs who make him restless, with auc- 
tioneers who receive every new work with praise and esti- 
mates of value such as would fitly honor the most super- 
lative production. 

But it is time to conclude this introduction lest it antici- 
pate and forestall the work, instead of merely preceding it. 
We have so far at least designated the point from which we 
intend to set out; how far our views can and will spread, 
must at first develop gradually. The theory and criticism 
of literary art will, we hope, soon occupy us; and whatever 
life, travel, and daily events suggest to us, shall not be ex- 
cluded. In closing, let us say a word on an important con- 
cern of this moment. 

For the training of the artist, for the enjoyment of the 
friend of art, it was from time immemorial of the greatest 
significance in what place the works of art happened to be. 
There was a time when, except for slight changes of loca- 
tion, they remained for the most part in one place; now, 
however, a great change has occurred, which will have im- 
portant consequences for art in general and in particular. 
At present we have perhaps more cause than ever to regard 
Italy as a great storehouse of art — as it still was until re- 
cently. When it is possible to give a general review of it, 
then it will be shown what the world lost at the moment 
when so many parts were torn from this great and ancient 

What was destroyed in the very act of tearing away will 
probably remain a secret forever; but a description of the 
new storehouse that is being formed in Paris will be possible 
in a few years. Then the method by which an artist and a 
lover of art is to use France and Italy can he indicated; 
and a further important and fine question will arise: what 
are other nations, particularly Germany and England, to 
do in this period of scattering and loss, to make generally 
useful the manifold and widely strevra treasures of art— « 



280 GOETHE 

task requiring the true cosmopolitan mind which is found 
perhaps nowhere purer than in the arts and sciences? And 
what are they to do to help to form an ideal storehouse, 
which in the course of time may perhaps happily compensate 
us for what the present moment tears away when it does not 
destroy? 

So much in general of the purpose of a work in which we 
desire manjr earnest and friendly symgathizers. 



PREFACES TO VARIOUS 
VOLUMES OF POEMS 

BY WILUAM WORDSWORTH' 

ADVERTISEMENT 

TO LYRICAL BALLADS 

(1798) 

IT is the honourable characteristic of Poetry that its 
materials are to be found in every subject which can 
interest the human mind. The evidence of this fact 
is to be sought, not in the writings of Critics, but in those 
of Poets themselves. 

The majority of the following poems are to be considered 
as experiments. They were writjen chiefly with a view to 
ascertain how farthe language of conversation in" the ihlSdle 
andTower classes of society is adapted to the purposes of 
poetic pleasure, Readers accustomed to the gaudine'ss aiiS 
inane phraseology of many modem writers, if they persist 
in reading this book to its conclusion, will perhaps frequently 
have to struggle with feelings of strangeness and awkward- 
ness: they will look round for poetry, and will be induced 
to inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts can be 
permitted to assume that title. It is desirable that such read- 
ers, for their own sakes, should not suffer the solitary word 
Poetry, a word of very disputed meaning, to stand in the way 
of their gratification; but that, while they are perusing this 
book, they should ask themselves if it contains a natural 
delineation of human passions, human characters, and 
human incidents; and if the answer be favourable to the 
author's wishes, that they should consent to be pleased in 



igland, was aJw 
: Pre/ac« -nd 



eightceatb ceoLuiyi and cgQiain bcudei 
on the nature of poetiy id be found ii 

" Ciomwell," to be found later in the vo 



BK WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

pcpite of that most dreadful enemy to our pleasures, our own 

F pre-established codes of decision. 

I Readers of superior judgement may disapprove of the 

I style in which many of these pieces are executed; it must 
be expected that many lines and phrases will not exactly 
suit their taste. It will perliaps appear to them, that wish- 
ing to avoid the prevalent fault of the day, the author has 
sometimes descended too low, and that many of his expres- 
sions are too familiar, and not of sufficient dignity. It is 
apprehended that the more conversant the reader is with our 
elder writers, and with those in modem times who have been 
the most successful in painting manners and passions, the 
fewer complaints of this kind will he have to make. 

An accurate taste in poetry, and in all the other arts, Sif 
Joshua Reynolds has observed, is an acquired talent, which 
can only be produced by severe thought, and a long continued 
intercourse with the best models of composition. This u 
mentioned not with so ridiculous a purpose as to prevent the 
most inexperienced reader from judging for himself; but 
merely to temper the rashness of decision, and to suggest 
that if poetry be a subject on which much time has not b«en 
bestowed, the judgement may be erroneous, and that in 
many cases it necessarily will be so. 

The tale of Goody Blake and Harry GUI is founded on a 
wdl-authenticaled fact which happened in Warwickshire. 
Of the other poems in the collection, it may be proper to 
say that they are either absolute inventions of the author, or 
facts which took place within his personal observation or 
that of his friends. The poem of The Thorn, as the reader 
will soon discover, is not supposed to be spoken in the 
author's own person; the character of the loquacious nar- 
rator will sufficiently show itself in the course of the story. 
The Rime of the AncyetK Marinere was professedly written 
in imitation of the style, as well as of the spirit of the elder 
poets ; but with a few exceptions, the Author believes that 
the language adopted in it has been equally intelligible for 
these three last centuries. The lines entitled Expostulation 
and Reply, and those which follow, arose out of conversa- 
tion with a friend who was somewhat unreasonably attached 
to modem books of moral philosophy. 



PREFACE TO LYRICAL BALLADS 

(1800) 

THE first volume of these Poems has already been sub- 
mitted to general perusal. It was published, as an ex- 
periment, which, I hoped, might be of some use to 
ascertain, how far, by fitting to metrical arrangement a selec- 1 
tion of the real language of men in a state of vivid sensation, I 
that sort of pleasure and that quantity of pleasure may be 
imparted, which a Poet may rationally endeavour to impart, 
I had formed no very inaccurate estimate of the probable 
effect of those Poems: I flattered myself that Ihey who 
should be pleased with them would read them with more 
than common pleasure: and, on the other hand, I waa 
well aware, that by those who should dislike them, they 
would be read with more than common dislike. The result 
baa differed from my expectation in this only, that a greater 
number have been pleased than I ventured to hope I should 
please. 



Several of my Friends are anxious for the success qf 
these Poems, from a belief, that, if the views with which 
they were composed were indeed realized, a class of Poetry 
would be produced, well adapted to interest mankind per- 
manently, and not unimportant in the quality, and in the 
multiplicity of its moral relations: and on this account they 
have advised me to prefix a systematic defence of the theory 
upon which the Poems were written. But I was unwilling to 
undertake the task, knowing that on this occasion the 
Reader would look coldly upon my arguments, since I might 
be suspected of having been principally influenced by the 
selfish and foolish hope of reasoning him into an approba- 
tion of these particular Poems : and I was still more unwill- 
Jag to undertake the task, because, adequately to display the 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

- opiniaiu, and fnllr to enforce the argBmetiU, would require 
B iriaoUy dtsproportiooate to a preface. For. to treat 
die sabject with the clearness and ctdterencc of which it is 
mscepitible, it would be necessarj to give a full account of 
tbe present sate of the pnbUc taste in this country, and to 
deteRDtne bow Hr this taste is healthy or depraved ; which, 
again, coold not be detcrtnincd, witiioat pomting; out in 
what manner language and the human miad act and re-act 
oo each otbcr. and witbout retracing the reroIutMos, not 
of lilermtnte atone, bat likewise of socie^ itself. I faave 
ttwrefore altogether declined to enter regnJariy upon this 
defence ; yet I am sensible, that there would be somethii^ 
Kke improprien- in abruptly obtruding iqioo the Public, with- 
out a few words of introdnctioa. Poems so materially dif- 
lemtt from those upon which gesKial approbation is at 



It is sopposed. that bj the act of writii^ in verse an 
Aodtor mika a formal engsgoiMBl that he wtO gratify cer- 
tain known habits of associatioa; that be not only thus ap- 
prises the Reader that certain classes of ideas and expres- 
aoos win be found in his bocdc, bvt dot others wiD be care- 
fully exchaded. This expooent or symbol bek] f onfa bg 
metrical language must in Afferent etas of " 
excited very different ^^l'^' laticw^* for cxaa 
of CatuUns, Terence, and Locretius, and that of 
Oawfian; and in oor own country, in the age 
i pea re and Deaumoot and Fietctier. and that of 
Cowley, or t>t7dai. or Pope. I wiD not take 
determine the exact tnpon of the promise 
act of wrilii^ in verse, an Antbor in ti«e pn a at 
to hb reader : Utt it will uodoafacedly appear U 
&at I have not fulfilled the tenns of an cb) 
vofamtarily contracted. They who have been 
the gan£ness and inane phraseology of mi 
writers, if they persist ia tea£i^ this book 
elusion, win, no doubt, frequently have to sUagck. 
higs of strangeness and awkardness: tbef vfl ' 
for poetry, and will be indueed to iofaiiw hf 
of courtesy these attempts can be p^muffed IB 
tkk. I hope tfacrelore the reader wiQ Mt 



TO LTKICAL BAZXADS (1900) 28S 

attempting to state what I have proposed to myself to per- 
form; and also (as far as the limits of a preface will per- 
mit) to explain some of the chief reasons which have deter- 
mined me in the choice of my purpose: that at least he may 
be spared any unpleasant feeling of disappointment, and that 
I myself may be protected from one of the most dis- 
honourable accusations which can be brought against an 
Author; namely, that of an indolence which prevents him 
from endeavouring to ascertain what is his duty, or, when 
his duty is ascertained, prevents him from performing it. 

The principal object, then, proposed in these Poems was 
to choose incidents and situations from common life, and 
to relate or describe them, throughout, as far as was possible 
in a selection of language really used by men, and, at the 
same time, to throw over them a certain colouring of im- 
agination, whereby ordinary things should be presented to 
the mind in an unusual aspect; and, further, and above all, 
to make these incidents and situations interesting by trac- 
ing in them, truly though not ostentatiously, the primary 
laws of our nature: chiefly, as far as regards the manner 
in which we associate ideas in a state of excitement. Humble 
and rustic life was generally chosen, because, in that con- i 
dition, the essential passions of the heart find a better soil ' 
in which they can attain their maturity, are less under 
restraint, and speak a plainer and more emphatic language ; 
because in that condition of life our elementary feelings 
coexist in a state of greater simplicity, and, consequently, 
may be more accurately contemplated, and more forcibly 
communicated; because the manners of rural life germinate 
from those elementary feelings, and, from the necessary 
character of rural occupations, are more easily compre- 
hended, and are more durable; and, lastly, because in that \ 
condition the passions of men are incorporated with the ' 
beautiful and permanent forms of nature. The language, \ 
too, of these men has been adopted (purified indeed from 
what appear to be its real defects, from all lasting and 
rational causes of dislike or disgust) because such men 
hourly communicate with the best objects from which the 
best part of language is originally derived; and because, 
from their rank in society and the sameness and narrow 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

circle of their intercourse, being less under the influence of 
\ social vanity, they convey their feelings and notions in sim- 
*plc and unelabonited expressions. Accordingly, such a 
lan^age, arising out of repeated experience and regular 
feelings, is a more permanent, and a far more philosophical 
language, than that which is frequently substituted for it 
by Poets, who think that they are conferring honour upon 
thenaselvcs and their art, in proportion as they separate 
themselves from the sympathies of men, and indulge in 
arbitrary and capricious habits of expression, in order to 
furnish food for fickle tastes, and fickle appetites, of their 
own creation.' 

I cannot, however, be insensible to the present outcry 
against the triviality and meanness, both of thought and 
language, which some of my contemporaries have occa- 
sionally introduced into their metrical compositions; and I 
acknowledge that this defect, where it exists, is more dis- 
honourable to the Writer's own character than false re- 
finement or arbitrary innovation, though I should contend 
at the same time, that it is far less pernicious in the sum of 
its consequences. From such verses the Poems in these 

t. volumes will be found distinguished at least by one mark of 
J difference, that each of them has a worthy purpose. Not 
that I always began to write with a distinct purpose 
formerly conceived; but habits of meditation have, I trust, 
so prompted and regulated my feelings, that my descrip- 
tions of such objects as strongly excite those feelings, will 
be found to carry along with them a purpose. If this 
opinion be erroneous, I can have little right to the name at 
la Poet. For al! good poetry is tlie spontaneous overflow of 
I powerful feelings: and though this be true, Poems to which 
1 any value can be attached were never produced on any 
variety of subjects but by a man who, being possessed of 
more than usual organic sensibility, had also thought long 
and deeply. For our continued influxes of feeling are 
modified and directed by our thoughts, which are indeed the 
representatives of all our past feelings; and. as by contem- 
plating the relation of these general representatives to each 

'Hi! worlh while here lo observe, that tbs aftteling turti of Chiue. 
me ilmojt «lway3 eiprejaed in luiguRge pure and uni»ers»llj iilrUiaib 



TO LTHICAI- BALLADS (1900) 



287 



r, we discover what is really important to men, so, by the 
ipetition and continuance of this act, our feelings will be 
connected with important subjects, till at length, if we be 
originally possessed of much sensibility, such habits of mind 
will be produced, that, by obeying blindly and mechanically 
the impulses of those habits, we shall describe objects, and 
utter sentiments, of such a nature, and in such connexion 
with each other, that the understanding of the Reader must 
necessarily be in some degree enlightened, and his affections 
strengthened and purified. 

It has been said that each of these poems has a purpose 
Another circumstance must be mentioned which dis- 
tinguishes these Poems from the popular Poetry of the day; 
it is this, that the feeling therein developed gives importance 
to the action and situation, and not the action and situation 
to the feeling. 

A sense of false modesty shall not prevent me from 
asserting, that the Reader's attention is pointed to this 
mark of distinction, far less for the sake of these particular 
Poems than from the general importance of the subject. 
X,h e subject is ind eed importan t! For the human mind is 
capable ot bemg excited without the application of gross 
and violent stimulants; and he must have a very faint per- ' 
ception of its beauty and dignity who does not know this, 
and who does not further know, that one being is elevated 
above another, in proportion as he possesses this capability. 
It has therefore appeared to me, that to endeavour to pro- 
duce or enlarge this capability is one of the best services in 
which, at any jieriod, a Writer can be engaged ; but this 
service, excellent at all times, is especially so at the present 
day. For a multitude of causes, unknown to former times, 
are now acting with a combined force to blunt the dis- 
criminating powers of the mind, and, unfitting it for all 
voluntary exertion, to reduce it to a state of almost savage 
torpor. The most effective of these causes are the great 
national events which are daily taking place, and the in- 
creasing accumulation of men in cities, where the uniformity 
of their occupations produces a craving for extraordinary 
incident, which the rapid communication of intelligence 
hourly gratifies. To this tendency of life and manners the 



WILUAM WORDSWORTH 

' literature and theatrical exhibitions of the country have 
conformed themselves. The invaluable works of our elder 
writers, 1 had almost said the works of Shakespeare and 
Milton, are driven into neglect by frantic novels, sickly and 
stupid German Tragedies, and deluges of idle and CJttrava- 

.gant stories in verse. — When I think upon this degrading 

ithirst after outrageous stimulation, I am almost ashamed 
Ho have spoken of the feeble endeavour made in tiiese 
volumes to counteract it ; and, reflecting upon the magnitude 
of the general evil, I should be oppressed with no dis- 
honourable melancholy, had I not a deep impression of cer- 
tain inherent and indestructible qualities of the human 
mind, and likewise of certain powers in the great and per- 
manent objects that act upon it, which are equally inherent 
and indestructible; and were there not added to this impres- 
sion a belief, that the time is approaching when the evil will 
be systematically opposed, by men of greater powers, and 
with far more distinguished success. 

Having dwelt thus long on the subjects and aim of these 
Poems, 1 shall request the Reader's permission to apprise 
him of a few circumstances relating to their style, in order, 
among other reasons, that he may not censure me for not 
having performed what I never attempted. The Reader will 
ffn't thPt peisonifications of abstract ideas rarely occur in 
these volumes; and are utterly rejected, as an ordlhaty ' de- 

* vice to elevate the style, and raise it above prose. My pur- 
pose was to imitate, and, as far as possible, to adopt the vety 
language of men ; and assuredly such personifications do 
nol make any natural or regular part of that language. 
They are, indeed, a figure of speech occasionally prompted 
by passion, and I have made use of them as such; but have 
endeavoured utterly to reject them as a mechanical device 
of style, or as a family language which Writers in metn 
seem to lay claim to by prescription, I have wished to 
keep the Reader in the company of flesh and blood, per- 
suaded that by so doing I shall interest him. Others who 
pursue a different track will interest him likewise; I do not 
interfere with their claim, but wish to prefer a claim of 
my own. There will also be found in these volumei_little 
of what is usually called poetic diction; as much pains^aT 



^p TO LYRICAL BALLADS (1900) 289 

^mn taken to avoid it as is ordinarily taken to produce it; 
mis has been done for the reason already alleged, to bring 
my language near to the language of men; and further, 
because" tfie pleasure wlircT)~I~tiave proposed to myself to 
impart, is of a kind very different from that which is 
supposed by many persons to be the proper object of poetry. 
Without being culpably particular, I do not know how to 
give my Reader a more exact notion of tlie style in which it 
was my wish and intention to write, than by informing 
him that I have at all times endeavoured to look steadily at 
ray subject; consequently, there is I hope in these Poems 
little falsehood of description, and my ideas a re express ed 
in language fitted -fti their respective inipoffahce. Some- 
thing must have been gained by this practice, as it is friendly 
to one property of all good poetry, namely, good sense ; but 
it has necessarily cut me off from a large portion of phrases 
and figures of speech which from father to son have long 
been regarded as the common inheritance of Poets. I have 
also thought it expedient to restrict myself still further, hav- 
ing abstained from the use of many expressions, in them- 
selves proper and beautiful, but which have been foolishly 
repeated hy bad Poets, til! such feelings of disgust are 
connected with them as it is scarcely possible by any art 
of association to overpower. 

If in a poem there should be found a series of lines, or 
even a single line, in which the language, though naturally 
arranged, and according to the strict laws of metre, does not 
differ from that of prose, there is a numerous class of 
critics, who, when they stumble upon these prosaisms, as 
they call them, imagine that they have made a notable dis- 
covery, and exult over the Poet as over a man ignorant of 
his own profession. Now these men would establish a 
canon of criticism which the Reader will conclude he must 
utterly reject, if he wishes to be pleased with these volumes. 
And it would be a most easy task to prove to him, that not 
only the language of a large portion of every good poem, 
even of ~lhe most elevated character, must necessarily, ex- 
cept with reference to the metre, in no respect differ from 
that of good prose, but likewise that some of the most in- 
terestuig'^afirof the best poems will be found to be strictly 
(10) HC— Vol, 39 



raeo WILLIAM WOHDSWORTH 

F the language of prose when prose is well written. The 
truth of this assertion might be demonstrated by innumer- 
able passages from almost all the poetical writings, even of 
Milton himself. To illustrate the subject in a general m^m- 
ner, I will here adduce a short composition of Gray, who 
was at the head of those who, by their reasonings, have 
attempted to widen the space of separation betwixt Prose 
and Metrical composition, and was more than any other 

I man curiously elaborate in the structure of his own poetic 

■ diction. 

H In vain to me the smilinK momiDgs sbinc, 

H And reddcnins Pbnbus lifte bis golden fire; 

H The birds in vain tbeir amorous descant join, 

H Or cheerful fields resume their green atiire. 

H These ears, aias I for other notes repine : 

H A different ahjtel do these eyes reguire: 

H My lonely aHguisk melts ho heart but mine; 

H And in my hreasi the imperfect joys expire; 

^M Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer, 

H And new-born pleasure brings to happier meni 

■ The Gelds to all their wonted tribute bear ; 
W To warm their Hltle loves the birds complain. 

■ / fruilless mourn to him that cannot hear. 
I And tveep the more because I weep in foio. 

' It will easily be perceived, that the only part of thi» 
Sonnet which is of any value is the lines printed in Italics; 
it is equally obvious, that, except in the rhyme, and in 
the use of the single word ' fruitless ' for fruitlessly, which 
is so far a defect, the language of these lines docs in no 
respect differ from that of prose. 

By the foregoing quotation it has been shown that the 
language of Prose may yet be well adapted to Poetry: and 
it was previously asserted, that a large portion of the 
language of every good pqem can in no respect differ from 
■Sthat of good Prose. We will go further. It may be safely 
tefiirmed, that there neither is, nor can be, any essential 
difference between the language of prose and metrical com- 
position. We are fond of tracing the resemblance between 
Poetry and Painting, and, accordingly, we call them Sisters; 
but where shall we find bonds of connexion sufficiently strict 
to typify the affinity betwixt metrical and prose composition? 
They both speak by and to the same organs; the bodies in 



TO LYHICAL BALLADS (1600) 291 

which both of them arc clothed may be said to be of the 
same substance, their affections are kindred, and almost 
identical, not necessarily differing even in degree; Poetry" 
sheds no tears ' such as Angels weep,' but natural and 
human fears; she can boast of no celestial choir that dis> 
tinguishes her vital juices from those of prose; the same 
human hlood circulates through the veins of them both. 

If it be aiErmed that rhyme and metrical arrangement 
of themselves constitute a distinclion which overturns what 
has just been said on the strict affinity of metrical language 
with that of prose, and paves the way for other artificial 
distinctions which the mind voluntarily admits, I answer 
that the language of such Poetry as is here recommended 
is, as far as is possible, a selection of the language really 
spoken by men ; that this selection, wherever it is made with 
true tasle and feeling, will of itself form a distinction far 
greater ^han would at first be imagined, and will entirely- 
separate the composition from the vulgarity and meanness of 
ordinary life; and, if metre be superadded thereto. 1 believe 
that a dissimilitude will be produced altogether sufficient for 
the gratification of a rational mind. What other distinction 
would we have? Whence is it to come? And where is it 
to exist? Not, surely, where the Poet speaks through the 
mouths of his characters : it cannot be necessary here, either 
for elevation of stj'le, or any of its supposed ornaments: 
for, if the Poet's subject be Judiciously chosen, it will 
naturally, and upon fit occasion, lead him to passions the 
language of which, if selected truly and judiciously, must 
necessarily be dignified and variegated, and alive with 
metaphors and figures. I forbear to speak of an incongruity 
which would shock the intelligent Reader, should the Poet 
interweave any foreign splendour of his own with that which 
the passion naturally suggests: it is sufficient to say that 
such addition is unnecessary. And, surely, it is more 
probable that those passages, which with propriety abound 

BDt much canfusTon bss bKn introduced into critteisn by Ihis contiadii- 
tjnciion of Poetry ind Prose, instead of the more phllosophicil dim of 
PoMry and Matter, of_ Fact, or Scieinre. The only iilrirt antltbesis lo Proa= 

of melrE so naluralV occur 'in writing piiuc,' tlut it would be scarcely 
Did Ihem. eren were it deuribls. 



pre WILLIAM WORDSWORTH ■ 

' with metaphors and figures, will have their due effect, it, 
upon other occasions where the passions are of a milder 
character, the style also be subdued and temperate. 

Bui, as the pleasure which I hope to give by the Poems 
now presented to tlie Reader must depend enlireiy on just 
notions upon this subject, and, as it is in itself of high im- 
portance to our taste and moral feelings, I cannot content 
myself with these detached remarks. And if, in what I am 
about to say, it shall appear to some that my labour is 
unnecessary, and that I am like a man 6ghling a battle 
without enemies, such persons may be reminded, that, what- 
ever be the language outwardly holden by men, a practical 
faith in the opinions which I am wishing to establish is 
almost unknown. If my conclusions are admitted, and 
carried as far as they must be carried if admitted at a!!, 
our judgements concerning the works of the greatest Poets 
both ancient and modem will be far different from what 
they are at present, both when we praise, and when we 
censure: and our moral feelings influencing and influenced 
by these judgements will, I believe, be corrected and 
purified. 

Taking up the subject, then, upon general grounds, let 
me ask, what is meant by the word Poet? What is a Poet? 
To whom does he address himself? And what language 
is to be expected from him? — He is a man speaking to men: 
a man, it is true, endowed with more lively sensibility, more 
enthusiasm and tenderness, who has a greater knowledge 
of human nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than are 
supposed to be common among mankind; a man pleased 
with his own passions and volilions, and who rejoices more 
than other men in the spirit of hfe that is in him; delight- 
ing to contemplate similar volitions and passions as mani- 
fested in the goings-on of the Universe, and habitually 
impelled to create them where he does not find them. To 
these qualities he has added a disposition to be affected more 
than other men by absent things as if they were present; 
an ability of conjuring up in himself passions, which are 
indeed far from being the same as those produced by real 
events, yet (especially in those parts of the general sympathy 
which are pleasing and delightful) do more nearly resemUe 



^M TO LYRICAL BALLADS (ISOO) 293 

P!tte passions produced by real events, than anything which, 
from the motions of their own minds merely, other men are 
accustomed to feel in themselves; — whence, and from 
practice, he has acquired a greater readiness and power in 
expressing what He thinks and feels, and especially those 
thoughts and feelings which, by his own choice, or from the 
structure of his own mind, arise in him without immediate 
external excitement. 

But whatever portion of this faculty we may suppose even 
the greatest Poet to possess, there cannot be a doubt that 
the language which it will suggest to him, must often, in 
liveliness and truth, fall short of that which is uttered by 
men in real life, under the actual pressure of those passions, 
certain shadows of which the Poet thus produces, or feels 
to be produced, in himself. 

However exalted a notion we would wish to cherish of 
the character of a Poet, it is obvious, that while he describes / 
and imitates passions, his employment is in some degree! 
mechanical, compared with the freedom and power of real ( 
and substantial action and suffering. So that it will be 
the wish of the Poet to bring hts feelings near to those of 
tlie persons whose feelings he describes, nay, for short 
spaces of lime, perhaps, to let himself slip into an entire 
delusion, and even confound and identify his own feel- 
ings with theirs; modifying only the language which is 
thus suggested to him by a consideration that he describes 
for a particular purpose, that of giving pleasure, . Here,/ 
then, he will apply the principle of selection which has beeni 
already insisted upon. He will depend upon this for remov-' 
ing what would otherwise be painful or disgusting in the 
passion; he will feel that there is no necessity to trick out 
or to elevate nature : and, the more indnstrionsly he applies 
this principle, the deeper will be his faith that no words, 
which his fancy or imagination can suggest, will be to be 
compared with those which are the emanations of reality 
and truth. 

But it may be said by those who do not object to the 
genera! spirit of these remarks, that, as it is impossible for 
the Poet to produce upon all occasioos language as ex- 

^^ffiiisitely fitted for the passion as that whicb the real pas- 




^ 



WILLIAM WOBDSWOaXH 

itself st^gests, it is proper that he should consider hla» 
self as in the situation of a translator, who does not scruple 
to substitute exceilcncies of another kind for those which 
are unattainable by him; and endeavours occasionally to sur- 
pass his original, in order to make some amends for the 
general inferiority to which he feels that he must submit. 
But this would be to encourage idleness and unmanly despair. 
Further, it is the language of men who speak of what they 
do not imderstand; who talk of Poetry as of a matter of 
amusement and idle pleasure; who will converse with us 
as gravely about a taste for Poetry, as they express it. as 
if it were a thing as indifferent as a taste for rope-dancing, 
or Frontiniac or Sherry. Aristotle, I have been told, has 
said, that Poetry is the most philosophic of all writing: it 
is so : its object is truth, not individual and local, but general, 
and operative; not standing upon external testimony, but 
carried alive into the heart by passion; truth which is its 
own testimony, which gives competence and confidence to 
the tribunal to which it appeals, and receives them from the 
same tribunal Foetrjt-ia— tbcj mage of tpan and nature. 
The obstacles wh^clTstand in theway ^ the bdeiity ol me' 
Biographer and Historian, and of their consequent utility, 
are incalculably greater than those which are to be en- 
countered by the Poet who comprehends the dignity of his 
art. The Poet writes under one restriction only, namely, 
I the necessity of giving immediate pleasure to a human 
I Being possessed of that information which may be expected 
from him, not as a lawyer, a physician, a mariner, an astron- 
omer, or a natural philosopher, but as a Man. Except thia 
one restriction, there is no object standing between the 
Poet and the image of things; between this, and the 
Biographer and Historian, tliere are a thousand. 

Nor let this necessity of producing immediate pleasure 
be considered as a degradation of the Poet's art It is far 
otherwise. It is an acknowledgement of the beauty of the 
universe, an acknowledgement die more sincere, because not 
formal, but indirect: it is a task light and easy to him who 
looks at the world in the spirit of love: further, it is a 
homage paid to the native and naked dignity of man, to the 
grand elementary principle of pleasure, by which be know& 




TO LYRICAL BALLADS (1800) 

and feels, and lives, and moves. We Iiave no sympathy 
but what is propagated by pleasure: I would not be mis- 
understood; but wherever we sympathize with pain, it will 
be found that the sympatliy is produced and carried on by 
subtle combinations with pleasure. We have no knowledge, 
tliat is, no general principles drawn from the contemplation 
of particular facts, but what has been built up by pleasu 
and exists in us by pleasure alone. The Man of science, the 
Chemist and Mathematician, whatever difficulties and dis- 
gusts they may have had to struggle with, know and feel 
this. However painful may be the objects with which the 
Anatomist's knowledge is connected, he feels that his knowl- 
edge is pleasure; and where he has no pleasure he has no 
knowledge. What then does the Poet? He considers man 
and the objects that surround him as acting and re-acting 
upon each other, so as to produce an infinite complexity of 
pain and pleasure ; he considers man in his own nature and 
in his ordinary life as contemplating this with a certain 
quantity of immediate knowledge, with certain convictions, 
intuitions, and deductions, which from habit acquire the 
quality of intuitions; he considers him as looking upon 
this complex scene of ideas and sensations, and finding 
everywhere objects that immediately excite in him sjTn- 
pathies which, from the necessities of his nature, are accom- 
panied by an overbalance of enjoyment. 

To this knowledge which all men carry about with them, 
and to these sympathies in which, without any other disci- 
pline than that of our daily life, we are fitted to take delight, 
the Poet principally directs his attention. He considers man! 
and nature as essentially adapted to each olher, and the! 
mind of man as naturally the mirror of the fairest and most \ 
interesting properties of nature. And thus the Poet, I 
prompted by this feeling of pleasure, which accompanies him I 
through the whole course o£ his studies, converses with gen- ' 
era] nature, with affections akin to those, which, through 
labour and length of time, the Man of science has raised up 
in himself, by conversing with those particular parts of 
nature which are the objects of his studies. The knowledge 
both of the Poet and the Man of science is pleasure ; but the 
JcDOwtedge of the one cleaves to us as a necessary pa,rt of 



SBS VTLLIAM WORDSWOBTH 

our existence, our natural and unalienable inheritance; the 
other is a personal and individual acquisition, slow to come 
to us, and by no habitual and direct sympathy connecting us 
with our fellow-beings. The Man of science seeks truth as 
a remote and unknown benefactor; be cherishes and loves it 
in his solitude: the Foet, singing a song in which all human 
beings join with him, rejoices in the presence of truth as our 
visible friend and hourly companion. Poetry is the breath 
and finer spirit of ail knowledge; it is the impassioned ex- 
pression which is in the countenance of all Science. Era- 
Jphafically may it be said of the Poet, as Shakespeare hath 
said of man, 'that he looks before and after.' He is the 
rock of defence for human nature: an upholder and pre- 
server, carrying everywhere with him relationship and love. 
In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and 
manners, of laws and customs: in spite of things silently 
gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed; the Poet 
binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of 
human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over 
all lime. The objects of the Poet's thoughts are everywhere; 
though the eyes and senses of man are, it is true, his favour- 
ite guides, yet he will follow wheresoever he can find an 
atmosphere of sensation in which to move his wings. Poetry 
is the first and last of all knowledge — it is as immortal as 
the heart of man. If the labours of Men of science should 
ever create any material revolution, direct or indirect, in our 
condition, and in the impressions which we habitually re- 
ceive, the Poet will sleep then no more than at present; he 
will be ready to follow the steps of the Man of science, not 
only in those general indirect effects, but he will be at his 
side, carrying sensation into the midst of the objects of the 
science itself. The remotest discoveries of the Chemist, the 
Botanist, or Mineralogist, will be as proper objects of the 
Poet's art as any upon which it can be employed, if the time 
should ever come when these things shall be familiar to us, 
and the relations under which they are contemplated by the 
followers of these respective sciences shall be manifestly and 
palpably material to us as enjoying and suffering beings. If 
the time should ever come when wliat is now called science, 
thus familiarized to men, shall be ready to put on, as it 



were, a form of flesh and blood, the Poet wlil lend his 
divine spirit to aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the 
Being thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the 
household of man. — It is not, then, to be supposed that any 
one, who holds that sublime notion of Poetry which I have 
attempted to convey, will break in upon the sanctity and 
truth of his pictures by transitory and accidental ornaments, 
and endeavour to excite admiration of himself by arts, the 
necessity of which must manifestly depend upon the assumed 
meanness of his subject. 

What has been thus far said applies to Poetry in general; 
but especially to those parts of composition where the Poet 
speaks through the mouths of his characters ; and upon this 
point it appears to authorize the conclusion that there are 
few persons of good sense, who would not allow that the 
dramatic parts of composition are defective, in proportion! 
as they deviate from the real language of nature, and are I 
colqwred by a diction of the Poet's own, either peculiar to \ 
him as an individual Poet or belonging simply to Poets in 
general ; to a body of men who, from the circumstance of 
their compositions being in metre, it is expected will employ 
a particular language. 

It is not, then, in the dramatic parts of composition that 
we look for this distinction of language; but still it may be 
proper and necessary where the Poet speaks to us in his own 
person and character. To this I answer by referring the 
Reader to the description before given of a Poet. Among 
the qualities there enumerated as principally conducing to 
form a Poet, is implied nothing differing in kind from other 
men, but only in degree. The sum of what was said is, that 
the Poet is chiefly distinguished from other men by a greater 
promptness to think and feel without immediate external 
excitement, and a greater power in expressing such thought! 
and feelings as are produced in him in that manner. " 
these passions and thoughts and feelings are the general 
passions and thoughts and feelings of men. And with what 
are they connected? Undoubtedly with our moral sentiments 
and animal sensations, and with the causes which excite 
these; with the operations of the elements, and the appear- 
i of the visible universe^ with storm and sunshine. 






w 

^^V with tfae 



WILLIAM wcmuswumu 



/ 



with tfae mohnions of the seasons, wtdi coM and heat, 
with lou of friends and kindred, with injuries and resent' 
ments, gratttnde and hope, witli fear and sorrow. These, 
and the like, are the sensations and objects which the 
Poet describes, as thef are the sensations of other men, 
and the objects which interest them. The Poet thinks 
and feets in the spirit of baman passions. How, then, can 
his language differ in anjr materiai degree from that of all 
Other men who feel viridly and see dearly? It i " ' 
proved that it is impossible. Bat supposing that I 
not the case, the Poet mi^t then be allowed to use a 
language when expressing his feelings for his o ___^^^ 
cation, or that of men like himself. But Poets do not write 
for Poets alone, but for men. Unless therefore we are advo- 
cates for that admiration which subsists upon ignorance, and 
that pleasure which arises from hearing n*bat we do not un- 
derstand, the Poet most descend from this supposed height; 
and, in order to excite rational sympathy, be must express 
himself as other men express themselves. To this it may 
be added, that while he b only selecting from the real lan- 
guage of men, or, which amounts to the same thing, com- 
posing accurately in the spirit of such selection, be is tread- 
ing upon safe ground, and we know what we are to expect 
from him. Our feelings are the same with respect to metre; 
for, as it may be proper to remind the Reader, the distinction 
of metre is regular and uniform, and not, like that whicli is 
produced by what is usually called poinc dictiox, arbitrary. 
and subject to infinite caprices upon which no calculalioD 
whatever can be made. In the one case, the Reader is ut- 
terly at the mercy of the Poet, respecting what imagery or 
diction he may choose to connect with the passion ; whereas, 
in the other, the metre obeys certain laws, to which the Poet 
and Reader both willingly submit because they are eerlain, 
and because no interference is made by them with the pas- 
sion, but such as the concurring testimony of ages has shown 
to heighten and improve the pleasure which co-exists with it. 
It will now be proper to answer an obvious question, 
namely. Why, professing these opinions, have I written in 
verse? To this, in addition to such answer as is included in 
what has been already said, I reply, in the first place. Because 



vividly described in prose, why . 
aticmpting to superadd to sudl \ 
, by the consent of all nations, \ 
in metrical language? To \ 
ivinced, it may be answered that 



TO LYRICAL BALLADS (1900) 209 

however I may have restricted myself, there is still left open 
to me what confessedly constitutes the most valuable object 
of all writing, whether in prose or verse; the great and uni- 
versal passions of men, the most general and interesting of 
their occupations, and the entire world of nature before me — 
to supply endless combinationa of forms and imagery. 
Now, supposing for a moment that whatever is interesting 
in these objects may be as vividly described in prose, why i 
should I be condemned for attcmpti 
description the charm which, 
is acknowledged to exist 

this, hy such as arc yet unconvinced, it may be answered that 
a very small part of the pleasure given by Poetry depends 
upon the metre, and that it is injudicious to write in metre, 
unless it be accompanied with the other artificial distinctions 
of style with which metre is usually accompanied, and that, 
by such deviation, more will be lost from the shock which 
will thereby be given to the Reader's associations than will 
be counterbalanced by any pleasure which he can derive 
from the general power of numbers. In answer to those 
who still contend for the necessity of accompanying metre 
with certain appropriate colours of style in order to the ac- 
complishment of its appropriate end, and who also, in my 
opinion, greatly underrate the power of metre in itself, it 
might, perhaps, as far as relates to these Volumes, have been 
almost sufficient to observe, that poems are extant, written 
upon more humble subjects, and in a still more naked and 
simple style, which have continued to give pleasure from 
generation to generation. Now, if nakedness and simplicity 
be a defect, the fact here mentioned affords a strong pre- 
sumption that poems somewhat less naked and simple are 
capable of affording pleasure at the present day; and, what 
I wish chie/ly to attempt, at present, was to justify my- 
Belf for having written under the impression of this belief. 
But various causes might be pointed out why, when the 
style is manly, and the subject of some importance, words 
metrically arranged will long continue to impart such a 
pleasure to mankind as he who proves the extent of that 



pleasure will be desirous to impart. The end of Poetry is 
to produce excitement in co-«xi5tence with an overbalance 



I »w i" 



» 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

\ of pleasure ; but, by the suppositioD, excttemeot Is an n 
'and irregular state of the mind: ideas and feelings do not; ] 
in that state, succeed each other in accustomed order. If ' 
die words, however, by which this excitement is produced 
be in themselves powerful, or the images and feelings have 
an undue proportion of pain connected with them, there ii 
some danger that the excitement may be carried beyond its 
proper bounds. Now the co-presence of something regular, 
something to which the mind has been accustomed in various 
moods and in a less excited state, cannot but have great ef- 
ficacy in tempering and restraining the passion by an inter- 
ttxture of ordinary feeling, and of feeling not slrictly and 
necessarily connected with the passion. This is unquestion- 
ably true ; and hence, though the opinion wDl at first appear 
paradoxical, from the tendency of metre to divest language, 
in a certain degree, of its reality, and thus to throw a sort of 
half-cansciousness of unsubstantial existence over the whole 
composition, there can be little doubt but that more pathetic 
situations and sentiments, that is, those which have a greater 
IpToportion of pain connected with them, may be endured in 
Imetrical composition, especially in rhyme, than in prose. 
The metre of the old ballads is very artless; yet they contain 
many passages which would illustrate this opinion; and, I 
hope, if the following Poems be attentively perused, similar 
instances will be found in them. This opinion may be fur- 
ther illustrated by appealing to the Reader's own experience I 
of the reluctance with which he comes to the re-perusal of 
the distressful parts of Clarissa Harlowe, or The Gamester; \ 
while Shakespeare's writings, in the most pathetic scenes, i 
never act upon us, as pathetic, beyond the bounds of pleasure 
— an effect which, in a much greater degree than might at 
first be imagined, is to be ascribed to small, but continual and 
regular impulses of pleasurable surprise from the metrical 
arrangement, — On the other hand (what it must be allowed 
will much more frequently happen) if the Poet's words 
should be incommensurate with the passion, and inadequate 
to raise the Reader to a height of desirable excitement, then 
(unless the Poet's choice of his metre has been grossly in- 
judicious), in the feelings of pleasure which the Reader has 
been accustomed to connect with metre in general, and in the 



TO tVniCAL BALLADS (IBOO) 

feeling, whether cheerful or melancholy, which he has been 
accustomed to connect with that particular movement of 
metre, there will be found something which will greatly con- 
tribute to impart passion to the words, and to effect the com- 
plex end which the Poet proposes to himself. 

If I had undertaken a systematic defence of the theory 
here maintained, it would have been my duty to develop the 
various causes upon which the pleasure received from met- 
rical language depends. Among the chief of these causes is 
to be reckoned a principle which must be well known to those 
who have made any of the Arts the object of accurate re- t 
flection; namely, the pleasure which the mind derives from I 
the perception of similitude in dissimilitude. This principle 
is the great spring of the activity of oar minds, and their 
chief feeder. From this principle the direction of the sexual 
appetite, and all the passions connected with tt, take their 
origin: it is the life of our ordinary conversation; and upon 
the accuracy with which similitude in dissimilitude, and dis- 
similitude in similitude are perceived, depend our taste and 
our moral feelings. It would not be a useless employment 
to apply this principle to the consideration of metre, and to 
show that metre is hence enabled to afford much pleasure, 
and to point out in what manner that pleasure is produced. 
But my limits will not permit me to enter upon this subject, 
and I must content myself with a general summary. 

I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow of 
powerful feelings : it takes its origin from emotion recollected 
in tranquillity: the emotion is contemplated till, by a species 
of reaction, the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an 
emotion, kindred to that which was before the subject of 
contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually 
exist in the mind. In this mocd successful composition gen- 
erally begins, and in a mttod similar to this it is carried on; 
but die emotion, of whatever kind, and in whatever degree, 
from various causes, is qualified by various pleasures, so 
that in describing any passions whatsoever, which are volun-j 
tarily described, the mind will, upon the whole, be in a statej 
of enjoyment. If Nature he thus cautious to preserve in a 
state of enjojinent a being so employed, the Poet ought to 
^Ofit bjr the lesson held forth to him, and ought especially 



WILUAM WORDSWORTH 

to take care, that, whatever passions he communicates to his 
iReader, those passions, if his Reader's mind be sound aiid 
•Hgorous, should always be accompanied with an overbalance 
pf pleasure. Now the music of harmonious metrical Ian- 
ttiage, the sense of difficulty overcome, and the blind asso- 
ciation of pleasure which has been previously received from 
works of rhyme or metre of the same or similar construc- 
tion, an indistinct perception perpetually renewed of language 
closely resembling that of real life, and yet, in the circum- 
stance of metre, differing from it so widely — all these imper- 
ceptibly make up a complex feeling of delight, which is of 
the most important use in lempering the painful feeling 
always found intermingled with powerful descriptions of the 
deeper passions. This effect is always produced in pathetic 
and impassioned poetry; while, in lighter compositions, the 
ease and gracefulness with which the Poet manages his 
numbers are themselves confessedly a principal source of 
the gratification of the Reader. All that it is necessary to 
say, however, upon this subject, may be effected by afGrm- 
ing. what few persons will deny, that, of two descriptions, 
either of passions, manners, or characters, each of them 
equally well executed, the one in prose and the other in verse, i 
the verse will be read a hundred times where the prose isj 
read once. 

Having thus explained a few of my reasons for writing In 
verse, and why I have chosen subjects from common life, 
and endeavoured to bring my language near to the real lan- 
guage of men, if I have been too minute in pleading my own 
cause, I have at the same time been treating a subject of 
general interest; and for this reason a few words shall be 
added with reference solely to these particular poems, and 
to some defects which will probably be found in them. I 
am sensible that my associations ihust have sometimes been 
particular instead of general, and that, consequently, giving 
to things a false importance. I may have sometimes written 
upon unworthy subjects ; but I am less apprehensive on this 
account, than that mv language may frequently have suf- 
fered from those arbitrary connexions of feelings and ideas 
with particular words and phrases, from which no man can 
altogether protect himself. Hence I have no doubt, thai, in 



TO LYRICAL BALLADS (1800) 

some instances, feelings, even of the ludicrous, may be given 
to my Readers by expressions which appeared to me tender 
and patlietic. Such faulty expressions, were I convinced they 
were faulty at present, and that they must necessarily con- 
tinue to be so, I would willingly take ail reasonable pains to 
correct. But it is dangerous to make these alterations on 
the simple authority of a few individuals, or even of certain 
classes of men; for where the understanding of an Author 
is not convinced, or his feelings altered, this cannot be done 
without great injury to himself: for his own feelings are his 
stay and support; and, if he set them aside in one instance, 
he may be induced to repeat this act till his mind shall lose 
all confidence in itself, and become utterly debilitated. To 
this it may he added, that the critic ought never to forget 
that he is himself exposed to the same errors as the Poet, and, 
perhaps, in a much greater degree : for there can be no pre- 
sumption in saying of most readers, that tt is not probable 
they will be so well acquainted with the various stages of 
meaning through which words have passed, or with the 
fickleness or stability of the relations of particular ideas 
to each other; and, above all, since they are so much 
less interested in the subject, they may decide lightly and 
carelessly. 

Long as the Reader has been detained, I hope he will per- 
mit me to caution him against a mode of false criticism 
which has been applied to Poetry, in which the language 
closely resembles that of life and nature. Such verses have 
been triumphed over in parodies, of which Dr. Johnson's 
stanza is a fair specimen: — 

I put my hat upon my head 

And walked into the Strand. 
And there I met another man 
Whose hat was in his hand. 

^immediately under these lines let us place one of the most 
Bstly admired stanzas of the 'Babes in the Wood.' 

These pretty Babes with band in hand 
Went wandering up and down ; 
But never more they saw the Man 
Approaching from the Town. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

In both these stanzas the words, and the order of the 
words, in no respect differ from the most un impassioned 
There are words in both, for example, 'the 
Strand,' and 'the Town,' connected with none but the most 
famjliar ideas ; yet the one stajiza we admit as admirable, and 
the other as a fair example of the superlatively contemptible. 
Whence arises this difference? Not from the metre, not 
from the language, not from the order of the words; but 
the matter expressed in Dr. Johnson's stanza is contempti- 
ble. The proper method of treating trivial and simple verses, 
to which Dr. Johnson's stanza would be a fair paraUelisnt; 
is not to say, this is a bad kind of poetry, or, this ts not 
poetry; but, this wants sense; it is neither interesting in 
itself nor can lead to anything interesting; the images neither 
originate in that sane state of feeling which arises out of 
thought, nor can excite thought or feeling in the Reader. 
This is the only sensible manner of dealing with such verses- 
Why trouble yourself about the species till you have previous- 
ly decided upon the genus? Why take pains to prove than 
an ape is not a Newton, when it is self-evident that he is 
not a man? 

One request 1 must make of my reader, which is, that in 
judging these Poems he would decide by his own feelings 
genuinely, and not by reflection upon what will probably be 
the judgement of others. How common is it to hear a per- 
son say, I myself do not object to this style of composition, 
or this or that expression, but, to such and such classes of 
people it will appear mean or ludicrous t This mode of 
criticism, so destructive of all sound unadulterated judge- 
ment, is almost universal: let the Reader then abide, in- 
dependently, by his own feelings, and, if he finds himself 
affected, let him not suffer such conjectures to interfere 
with his pleasure. 

If an Author, by any single composition, has impressed 
us with respect for his talents, it is useful to consider this 
as affording a presumption, that on other occasions where 
we have been displeased, he, nevertheless, may not have 
written ill or absurdly; and further, to give him so much 
credit for this one composition as may induce us to review 
what has displeased us, with more care than we should other- 



wise have bestowed upon it. This is not only an act of 
justice, but, in our decisions upon poetry especially, may con- 
duce, in a higli degree, to the improvement of our own taste; 
for an accurate taste in poetry, and in all the other arts, as| 
Sir Joshua Reynolds has observed, is an acquired talent,! 
which can only be produced by thought and a long continued! 
intercourse with the best models of composition. This is 
mentioned, not witli so ridiculous a purpose as to prevent the 
most inexperienced Reader from judging for himself (I 
have already said that I wish him to judge for himself), but 
merely to temper the rashness of decision, and to suggest, 
that, if Poetry be a subject on which much time has not 
been bestowed, the judgement may be erroneous; and that, 
in many cases, it necessarily will be so. 

Nothing would, I know, have so effectually contributed to 
further the end which I have in view, as to have shown of 
what kind the pleasure is, and how that pleasure is produced, 
which is confessedly produced by metrical composition essen- 
tially different from that which I have here endeavoured to 
recommend: f o r the^Reader will say that he has ..been 
pleased by siicncompositi^; ai5d"WB"at more can be done 
for him ? The power of any art iS Hmifed ; arid he will sus- 
pecCthat, if it be proposed to furnish him with new friends, 
that can be only upon condition of his abandoning his old 
friends. Besides, as I have said, the Reader is himself con- 
scious of the pleasure which he has received from such com- 
position, composition to which he has peculiarly attached the 
endearing name of Poetry ; and all men feel an habitual grat- 
itude, and something of an honourable bigotry, for the 
objects which have long continued to please them: we not 
only wish to be pleased, but to be pleased in that particular 
way in which we have been accustomed to be pleased. There 
is in these feelings enough to resist a host of arguments; 
and I should be the less able to combat thera successfully, as 
I am willing to allow, that, in order entirely to enjoy the 
Poetry which I am, recommending, it would be necessary to 
give up much of what is ordinarily enjoyed. But. would my 
limits have permitted me to point out how this pleasure is 
produced, many obstacles might have been removed, and the 
Reader assisted in perceiving that the powers of language 



WILLIAM WORDSWOBTH 

arc not so limiled as he may suppose ; and that it is possible 
for poetry to give other enjoyments, of a purer, more lasting, 
and more exquisite nature. This part of the subject has rot 
been altogether neglected, but it has not been so much my 
present aim to prove, that the interest excited by some other 
kinds of poetry is less vivid, and less worthy o£ the nobler 
powers of the mind, as to offer reasons for presuming, that 
if my purpose were fulfilled, a species of poetry would be 
produced, which is genuine poetry ; in its nature well adapted 
to interest mankind permanently, and likewise important in 
the multiplicity and quality of its moral relations. 

From what has been said, and from a perusal of the 
Poems, the Reader will be able clearly to perceive the object 
which I had in view: he will determine how far it has been 
attained; and, what is a much more important question, 
whether it be worth attaining: and upon the decision of 
these two questions will rest my claim to the approbation o! 
the Public 



APPENDIX TO LYRICAL BALLADS 

(■802) 

PERHAPS, as I have no right to expect that attentive 
perusal, without which, confined, as I have been, to the 
narrow litnits of a preface, my meaning cannot be 
tlaoroughly understood, I am anxious to give an exact notion 
of the sense in which the phrase poetic diction has been used; 
and for this purpose, a few words shall here be added, 
concerning the origin and characteristics of the phrase- 
ology, which I have condemned under that name. 

The earliest poets of all nations generally wrote from 
passion excited by real events; they wrote naturally, and 
as men: feeling powerfully as they did, their language was 
darir.g, and figurative. In succeeding limes, Poets, and Men 
ambitious of the fame of Poets, perceiving the influence 
of such language, and desirous of producing the same 
effect without being animated by the same passion, set 
themselves to a mechanical adoption of these figures of 
speech, and made use of them, sometimes with propriety, 
but much more frequently applied them to feelings and 
thoughts with which they had no natural connexion what- 
soever, A language was thus insensibly produced, differing 
materially from the real language of men in any situation. 
The Reader or Hearer of this distorted language found 
himself in a perturbed and unusual state of mind: when 
affected by the genuine language of passion he had been 
in a perturbed and unusual state of mind also: in both 
cases he was willing that his common judgement and under- 
standing should be laid asleep, and he had no instinctive 
and infallible perception of the true to make hjm reject 
the false ; the one served as a passport for the other. The 
emotion was in both cases delightful, and no wonder if 
he confounded the one with the other, and believed them 
both to be produced by the same, or similar causes. Be- 
Eides, the Poet spake to him in the character of a man to 
307 



908 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

be looked up to, a man of genius and authority. Thus, ind 
from a variety of other causes, this distorted language 
was received with admiration; and Poets, it is probable, 
who had before contented themselves for the most part 
witli misapplying only expressions which at first had been 
dictated by real passion, carried the abuse still further, 
and introduced phrases composed apparently in the spirit 
of the original figurative language of passion, yet alto- 
gether of their own invention, and characterised by various 
degrees of wanton deviation from good sense and nature. 
It is indeed true, that the language of the earliest Poets 
was felt to differ materially from ordinary language, he- 
cause it was the language of extraordinary occasions; but 
it was really spoken by men, language which the Poet 
himself had uttered when he had heen affected by the 
events which he described, or which he had heard uttered 
by those around him. To this language it is probable that 
metre of some sort or other was early superadded. This 
separated the genuine language of Poetry still further from 
common life, so that whoever read or heard the poems of 
these earliest Poets felt himself moved in a way in which 
he had not been accustomed to be moved in reij life, and 
by causes manifeslly different from those which acted upon 
him in real life. This was the great temptation to all the 
corruptions which have followed: under the protection of 
this feeling succeeding Poets constructed a phraseology 
which had one thing, it is true, in common with the genuine 
language of poetry, namely, that it was not heard in ordi- 
nary conversation; that it was unusual. But the first 
Poets, as I have said, spake a language which, though un- 
usual, was still the langiiage of men. This circumstance, 
however, was disregarded by their successors; they found 
that they could please by easier means : they became proud 
of modes of expression which they themselves had in- 
vented, and which were uttered only by themselves. In 
process of time metre became a symbol or promise of this 
unusual language, and whoever took upon him to write 
in metre, according as he possessed more or less of true 
poetic genius, introduced less or more of this adulterated 
phraseology into his compositions, and tlie true and the false 



APPENDIX TO LYRICAL BALLADS (1809) 309 

were inseparately interwoven until, the taste of men be- 
coming gradually perverted, this language was received 
as a natural language: and at length, by the influence of 
books upon men, did to a certain degree really become 
so. Abuses oi this kind were imported from one nation 
to another, and with tlie progress of refinement this dic- 
tion became daily more and more corrupt, thrusting out of 
sight the plain humanities of nature by a motley mas- 
querade of tricks, quaintnesses, hieroglyphics, and enigmas. 

It would not be uninteresting to point out the causes 
of the pleasure given by this extravagant and absurd 
diction. It depends upon a great variety of causes, but 
upon none, perhaps, more than its influence in impressing 
a notion of the peculiarity and exaltation of the Poet's 
character, and in flattering the Reader's self-love by briug- 
ing him nearer to a sympathy with that character ; an effect 
which is accomplished hy unsettling ordinary habJIs of 
thinking, and thus assisting the Reader to approach to 
that perturbed and dizzy state of mind in which if he does 
not find himself, he imagines that he is balked of a peculiar 
enjoyment which poetry can and ought to bestow. 

The sonnet quoted from Gray, in the Preface, except 
the lines printed in italics, consists of little else but this dic- 
tion, though not of the worst kind; and indeed, if one may 
be permitted to say so, it is far too common in the best 
writers both ancient and modern. Perhaps in no way, 
by positive example could more easily be given a notion 
of what I mean by the phrase poetic diction than by re- 
ferring to a comparison between the metrical paraphrase 
which we have of passages in the Old and New Testament, 
and those passages as they exist in our common Trans- 
lation. See Pope's Messiah throughout; Prior's ' Did sweeter 
sounds adorn my flowing tongue,' &c &c, ' Though I speak 
with the tongues of men and of angels,' &c. &c., ist 
Corinthians, ch. xiii. By way of immediate example take 
the following of Dr. Johnson: 



PiCBcribu her duties, or directs her chnice; 




WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

Yel. timely provident, she baste* away 
To snatch the blessings of a plenieous day; 
When fruitful Summer loads the teeming plaifl. 
She crops the harvest, and she stores the grain. 
How long shall sloth usurp thy useless hours, 
Unnerve thy vigour, and enchain thy powers? 
While artful shades thy downy couch enclose, 
And soft solicitation courts repose, 
Amidst the drowsy charms of dull delight. 
Year chases year with unremitted flight. 
Till Want now following, fraudulent and slow. 
Shall spring to seize tfaee, like an ambush'd foe. 

From this hubbub of words pass to the original. *Go 
to the Ant, thou Sluggard, consider her ways, and be wise: 
which having no guide, overseer, or ruJer, provideth her 
meat in the summer, and gathereth her food in the harvest 
How long wilt thou sleep, O Sluggard? when wilt thou 
arise out of thy sleep? Yet a little sleep, a little slumber, 
a little folding of the hands to sleep. So shall thy pover^ 
come as one that travelleth, and thy want as an armed 
man.' Proverbs, ch. vi. 

One more quotation, and I have done. It is from Cow- 
per'a .Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk: 



Religion I what treasure untold 

Resides in that heavenly word ! 

More precious thnn silver and gold. 

Or all that Ibis earth can afford. 

But the sound of the church-going bell 

These valleys and rocks never heard. 

Ne'er sighed at the sound of a knell. 

Or Emiled when a sabbath appeared. 

Ye winds, that have made me your sport 

Convey to this desolate shore 

Some cordial endearing report 

Of a land I must visit no morc- 

My Friends, do they now and then send 

A wish or a thought after me ? 

O tetl me T yet have a friend, 

Though a friend I am never to see. 

This passage is quoted as an instance of three different 
Styles of composition. The first four lines are poorly 
expressed; some Critics would call the language prosaic; 
the fact is, it would be bad prose, so bad, that it is scarcely 



APPENDIX TO LYRICAL BALLAD8 (IflOS) SlI 

"worse in metre. The epithet ' church -going ' applied to 
a bell, and that by so chaste a writer as Cowper, is an in- 
stance of the strange abuses which Poets have introduced 
into their language, till they and their Readers take them 
as matters of course, if they do not single them out ex- 
pressly as objects of admiration. The two lines 'Ne'er 
sighed at the sound,' &c., are, in my opinion, an instance 
of the language of passion wrested from its proper use, 
and, from the mere circumstance of the composition being 
in metre, applied upon an occasion that does not justify 
such violent expressions; and I should condemn the pas- 
sage, though perhaps few Readers will agree with me, as 
vicious poetic diction. The last stanza is throughout ad- 
mirably expressed: it would be equally good whether in 
prose or verse, except that the Reader has an exquisite 
pleasure in seeing such natural language so naturally con- 
nected with metre. The beauty of this stanza tempts me 
to conclude with a principle which ought never to be 
lost sight of. and which has been my chief guide in all I 
have said, — namely, that in worlds of imagination and senti- 
ment, for of these only have I been treating, in proportion 
as ideas and feelings are valuable, whether the composition 
be in prose or in verse, they require and exact one and 
the same language. Metre is but adventitious to compo- 
sition, and the phraseology for which that passport is neces- 
sary, even where it may be graceful at all, will be Utile 
valued by the judicious. 



THEp 
first, 
abili 



PREFACE TO POEMS 

(181S) 



i requisite for the produc 



1 of poetry a 



Kiuction 
rvation and Dcscriptio 
ability lo observe with accuracy things as they are in 
themselves, and with fidelity to describe them, unmodified by 
any passion or feeling existing in the raind of the describer; 
whether the things depicted be actually present to the senses, 
or have a place only in the memory. This power, though 
indispensable to a Poet, is one which he employs only in sub- 
mission to necessity, and never for a continuance of time: 
as its exercise supposes all the higher qualities of the mind 
to be passive, and in a slate of subjection to external objects, 
much in the same way as a translator or engraver ought to 
be to his original, andly. Sensibility, — which, the more 
exquisite it is, the wider will be the range of a poet's per- 
ceptions; and the more will he be incited to observe objects, 
both as they exist in themselves and as re-acted upon by his 
own mind. (The distinction between poetic and human sen- 
sibility has been marked in the character o£ the Poet de- 
lineated in the original preface.) 3rdly, Reflection, — which 
makes the Poet acquainted with the value of actions, images, 
thoughts, and feelings; and assists the sensibility in per- 
ceiving their connexion with each other. 4thly, Imagination 
and Fancy, — to modify, to create, and to associate. Sthly, 
Invention, — by which characters are composed out of ma- 
terials supplied by observation ; whether of the Poet's own 
heart and mind, or of external life and nature; and sach 
incidents and situations produced as are most impressive to 
the imagination, and most fitted to do justice to the charac- 
ters, sentiments, and passions, which the Poet undertakes 
to illustrate. And. lastly. Judgement, to decide how and 
where, and in what degree, each of these faculties ought to 
be exerted : so that the less shall not be sacrificed to the 
greater; nor the greater, slighting the less, arrogate, to its 
own injury, more than its due. By judgement, also, is 
313 



r TO POEMS (IBIS) 313 

determined what arc the laws and appropriate graces of 
every species of composition.' 

The materials of Poetry, by these powers collected and 
produced, are cast, by means of various moulds, into divers 
forms. The moulds may be enumerated, and the fonns 
specified, in the following order, ist. The Narrative, — in- 
cluding the Epopceia, the Historic Poem, the Tale, the 
Romance, the Mock-heroic, and, if the spirit of Homer will 
tolerate such neighbourhood, that dear production of our 
days, the metrical Novel. Of this Class, the distinguishing 
mark is, that the Narrator, however liberally his speaking 
agents be introduced, is himself the source from which 
everything primarily flows. Epic Poets, in order that their 
mode of composition may accord with the elevation of their 
subject, represent themselves as singing from the inspiration 
of the Muse, ' Arma virumque cano; ' but this is a fiction, in 
modem times, of slight value ; the Iliad or the Paradise Lost 
would gain little in our estimation by being chanted. The 
Other poets who belong to this class are commonly content to 
tell their tale ; — so that of the whole it may be affirmed that 
they neither require nor reject the accompaniment of music. 

2ndly, The Dramatic, — consisting of Tragedy, Historic 
Drama, Comedy, and Masque, in which the Poet does not 
appear at all in his own person, and where the whole action 
is carried on by speech and dialogue of the agents; music 
being admitted only incidentally and rarely. The Opera may 
be placed here, inasmuch as it proceeds by dialogue; though 
depending, to the degree that it does, upon music, it has a 
strong claim to be ranked with the lyrical. The charac- 
teristic and impassioned Epistle, of which Ovid and Pope 
have given examples, considered as a species of monodrama, 
may, withont impropriety, be placed in this class. 

3rdly, The Lyrical, — containing the Hymn, the Ode, the 
Elegy, the Song, and the Ballad; in all which, for the pro- 
duction of their full effect, an accompaniment of music is 
indispensable. 

4thly, The Idylliura, — descriptive chiefly either of the 
processes and appearances of external nature, as the Seasons 

•As amtibility la barmony nf oumbm, lod the power of producing it. 
■Tc invarialiir aiiendants upon the {acultiu abov* spcciSrd, nothing hu 



tU WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

of Thomson ; or of characters, manners, and sentiments. 38 
are Shen stone's Schoolmistress, The Cotter's Saturday 
Night of Burns, The Two Dogs of the same Author; or of 
these in conjunction with the appearances of Nature, as 
most of the pieces of Theocritus, the Allegro and Penseroso 
of Milton, Beattie's Minstrel, Goldsmith's Deserted Village. 
The Epitaph, the Inscription, the Sonnet, most of the epistles 
of poets writing in their own persons, and all loco-dcscrip- 
tive poetry, belonging to this class. 

5thly, Didactic, — the principal object of which is direct 
instruction; as the Poem of Lucretius, the Georgxcs of 
Virgil, The Fleece of Dyer. Mason's English Garden, &C 

And. lastly, philosophical Satire, like that of Horace and 
Juvenal; personal and occasional Satire rarely comprehend- 
ing sufficient of the general in the individual to be digniGed 
with the name of poetry. 

Out of the three last has been constructed a composite 
order, of which Young's Night Thoughts, and Cowper's 
Task, are excellent examples. 

It is dcducible from the above, that poems apparently 
miscellaneous, may with propriety be arranged either with 
reference to the powers of mind predominant in the pro- 
duction of them; or to the mould in which they are cast; or, 
lastly, to the subjects to which they relate. From each of 
these considerations, the following Poems have been divided 
into classes; which, that the work may more obviously cor* 
respond with the course of human life, and for the sake of 
exhibiting in it the three requisites of a legitimate whole, a 
beginning, a middle, and an end, have been also arranged, 
as far as it was possible, according to an order of time, com- 
mencing with Childhood, and terminating with Old Age, 
Death, and Immortality. My guiding wish was, that ibe 
small pieces of which these volumes consist, thus discrim- 
inated, might be regarded under a two- fold view; as com- 
posing an entire work within themselves, and as adjuncts to 
the philosophical Poem. The Recluse. This arrangement has 
long presented itself habitually to my own mind. Never- 
theless, I should have preferred to scatter the contents of 
these volumes at random, if I had been persuaded that, by 
the plan adopted, anything material would be taken from the 



TO POEMS (IfilS) 



315 



. ttitural effect of the pieces, individually, on the mind of the 
unreflecting Reader, 1 trust there is a sufficient variety in 
each class to prevent this; while, for him who reads with 
reflection, the arrangement will serve as a commentary 
unostentatiously directing his attention to my purposes, 
both particular and general. But, as I wish to guard against 
the possibihty of misleading by tliis classification, it is proper 
Erst to remind the Reader, that certain poems are placed 
according to the powers of mind, in the Author's conception, 
predominant in the production of them; predominant, which 
implies the exertion of other iaculties in less degree. Where 
there is more imagination than fancy in a poem, it is placed 
under the head of imagination, and vice versa. Both the 
above classes might without impropriety have been enlarged 
from that consisting of ' Poems founded on the Affection ; ' 
as might this latter from those, and from the class ' proceed- 
ing from Sentiment and Reflection.' The most striking char- 
acteristics of each piece, mutual illustration, variety, and 
proportion, have governed me throughout. 

None of the other Classes, except those of Fancy and 
Imagination, require any particular notice. But a remark 
of general application may be made. All Poets, except the 
dramatic, have been in the practice of feigning that their 
works were composed to the music of the harp or lyre; with 
what degree of affectation this has been done in modern times, 
I leave to the judicious to determine. For my own part, I have 
not been disposed to violate probability so far, or to make 
such a large demand upon the Reader's charity. Some of 
these pieces are essentially lyrical; and, therefore, cannot 
have their due force without a supposed musical accompani- 
ment; but, in much the greatest part, as a substitute for the 
classic lyre or romantic harp, 1 require nothing more than 
an animated or impassioned recitation, adapted to the sub- 
ject. Po;ms, however humble in their kind, if they be good 
in that kind, cannot read themselves; the law of long syllable 
and short must not be so inflexible. — the letter of metre must 
not be so impassive to the spirit of versification, — as to 
deprive the Reader of all voluntary power to modulate, in 
subordination to the sense, the music of the poem; — in the 
same manner as his mind is left at liberty, and even sum- 



WIIXIAM WOBDSWORTH 

moned, to act upon its thoughts and Images- But. though 
the accompaniment of a musical instrument be frequently 
dispensed with, the true Poet does not therefore abandon 
his privilege distinct from that of the mere Proseman; 

■ Ibe running brooks 



Let us come now to the consideraiion of the words Fancy 
and Imagination, as employed in the classification of the 
following Poems. "A man," says an intelligent author, ' has 
imagination in proportion as he can distinctly copy in idea 
the impressions of sense: it is the faculty which images 
witiiin the mind the phenomena of sensation. A man has 
fancy in proportion as he can call up, connect, or associate, 
at pleasure, those internal images (ifiavTdZtn is to cause to ap- 
pear) so as to complete ideal representations of absent ob- 
jects. Imagination is the power of depicting, anJ fancy of 
evoking and combining. The imagination is formed by 
patient observation; the fancy by a voluntary activity in 
shifting the scenery of the mind. The more accurate the 
imagination, the more safely may a painter, or a poet, under- 
take a delineation, or a description, without the presence of 
the objects to be characterized. The more versatile the 
fancy, the more original and striking will be the decorations 
produced.'— Br I (f J A Synonyms discriminated, by IV. Taylor. 

Is not this as if a man should undertake to supply an 
account of a building, and be so intent upon what he had 
discovered of the foundation, as to conclude his task with- 
out once looking up at the superstructure? Here, as in other 
instances throughout the volume, the judicious Author's 
mind is enthralled by Etymology; he takes up the original 
word as his guide and escort, and too often does not per- 
ceive how soon he becomes its prisoner, without liberty to 
tread in any path but that to which it confines him. It is not 
easy to find out how imagination, thus explained, differs 
from distinct remembrance of images ; or fancy from quick 
and vivid recollection of them: each is nothing more than a 
mode of memory. If the two words bear the above meaning, 
and no other, what term is left to designate that faculty of 
which the Poet is 'all compact;' he whose eyes glmces 



TO POEMS (Mlfi) 



»7 



» 



'Iroin earth to heaven, whose spiritual attributes body forth 
what his pen is prompt in turning to shape; or what is left 
to characterize Fancy, as insinuating herself into the heart 
of objects with creative activity? — Imagination, in the sense 
of the word as giving title to a class of the following Poems, 
has no reference to images that are merely a faithful copy, 
existing in the mind, of absent external objects; but is a 
word of higher import, denoting operations of the mind 
upon those objects, and processes of creation or of com- 
position, governed by certain fixed laws. I proceed to 
illustrate my meaning by instances. A parrot hangs from 
the wires of his cage by his beak or by his claws; or a 
inkey from the bough of a tree by his paws or his tail. 
Each creature does so literally and actually. In the first 
Eclogue of Virgil, the shepherd, thinking of the time when 
he is to take leave of his farm, thus addresses his goats: — 

Not) ego vos posthac virid! projectus in antro 
Dumosa pendere procul de rupe videbo, 

half way down 

Hangs one who gathers samphire, 

is the well-known expression of Shakespeare, delineating an 
ordinary image upon the cliffs of Dover. In these two 
instances is a slight exertion of the faculty which I denom- 
inate imagination, in the use of one word ; neither the goats 
nor the samphire-gatherer do literally hang, as does the 
parrot or the monkey; but, presenting to the senses some- 
thing of such an appearance, the mind in its activity, for 
its own gratification, contemplates them as hanging. 

As when far aS at sea a fleet descried 

Hangt in the clouds, by equinoctial winds 

Close Bailing from Beogala, or tbe isles 

Of Ternate or Tidore. whence merchants bring 

Their spicy drugs ; they on the trading flood 

Through the wide Ethiopian to the Cape 

Ply, MemminE nightly toward the Pole; so seemed 

Far off tbe Sying Fiend. 

Here is the full strength of the imagination involved in 
the word hangs, and exerted upon the whole image ; First, 
the fleet, an aggregate of many ships, is represented as one 



318 WnXIAM WORDSWORTH 

niighty person, whose track, we know and feel, is upon the 
waters; but, taking advantage of its appearance to the 
senses, the Poet dares to represent it as hanging in the 
clouds, both for the gratification of the mind in contemplat- 
ing the image itself, and in reference to the motion and ap- 
pearance of the sublime objects to which it is compared. 

From impressions of sight we will pass to those of sound; 
which, as they must necessarily be of a less definite char- 
acter, shall be selected from these volumes; 



i 



a sweet voice tlie Stock-dove troedt; 



The stoctc-dove is said to coo, a sound well imitating the 
note of the bird; but, by the intervention of the metaphor 
broods, the affections are called in by the imagination to 
assist in marking the manner in which the bird reiterates 
and prolongs her soft note, as if herself deligiiting to listen 
to it, and participating of a still and quiet satisfaction, like 
that which may be supposed inseparable from the contin- 
uous process of incubation. 'His voice was buried among 
trees,' a metaphor expressing the love of seclusion by which 
this Bird is marked ; and characterizing its note as not par- 
taking of the shrill and the piercing, and therefore more 
easily deadened by the intervening shade; yet a note so 
peculiar and withal so pleasing, that the breeze, gifted with 
that love of the sound which the Poet feels, penetrates the 
shades in which it is entombed, and conveys it to the ear 
of the listener. 

Sball I call thee Bird, 
Or but a waodering VciceT 

This concise interrogation characterizes the seeming 
ubiquity of the voice of the cuckoo, and dispossesses the 
creature almost of a corporeal existence ; the Imagination be- 
ing tempted to this exenion of her power by a consdonsnen 



TO POEMG (1815) 



319 



[bi the nremory that the cuckoo is almost perpetually heard 
throughout the season of spring, but seldom becomes an 
object of sight. 

Thus far of images independent of each other, and im- 
mediately endowed by the mind with properties that do not 
inhere in them, upon an incitement from properties and qual- 
ities the existence of which is inherent and obvious. These 
processes of imagination are carried on either by conferring 
additional properties upon an object, or abstracting from it 
some of those which it actually possesses, and thus enabling 
it to react upon the mind which hath performed the process, 
like a new existence. 

1 pass from the Imagination acting upon an individual 
image to a consideration of the same faculty employed upon 
images in a conjunction by which they modify each other. 
The Reader has already had a fine instance before him in the 
passage quoted from Virgil, where the apparently perilous 
situation of the goat, hanging upon the shaggy precipice, is 
contrasted with that of the shepherd contemplating it from 
the seclusion of the cavern in which he lies stretched at ease 
and in security. Take these images separately, and how 
unaffecting the picture compared with that produced by their 
being thus connected with, and opposed to, each other I 

Couched on the bald top of an eminence, 
Wonder to all who do the same espy 
By what means it could thither come, and whence 
So that it Beems a thing endued with sense, 
Like a sea-beast crawled forth, which on a shelf 
Of rock or sand reposcth, there to sun himself. 



Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood. 
That heareth not the loud winds when they call. 
And moveth altngethcr if it move at all. 

In these images, the conferring, the abstracting, and the 
modifying powers of the Imagination, immediately and me- 
diately acting, are all brought into conjunction. The stone 
is endowed with something of the power of life to approxi- 



WIUJAM WORI>SWORTH 

mate it to ihe sea-beast; and the sea-beast stripped of sonae 
of its vital qualities to assimilate it to the stone; which inter- 
mediate image is thus treated for the purpose of bringing 
the original image, that of the stone, to a nearer resemblance 
to the figure and condition of the aged Man; who is dirested 
of so much of the indications of life and motion as to bring 
him to the point where the two objects unite and coalesce in 
just comparison. After what has been said, the image of the 
cloud need not be commented upon. 

Thus far of an endowing or modifying power: but the 
Imagination also shapes and creates; and how? By in- 
numerable processes; and in none does it more delight than 
in that of consolidating numbers into unity, and dissolving 
and separating unity into number,— alternations proceeding 
from, and governed by, a sublime consciousness of the soul 
in her own mighty and almost divine powers. Recur to the 
passage already ciled from Milton. When the compact 
Fleet, as one Person, has been introduced 'sailing from 
Bengals,' ' They,' i. e. the ' merchants,' representing the 
fleet resolved into a multitude of ships, 'ply' their voyage 
towards the extremities of the earth: 'So' (referring lo 
the word 'As* in the corameDcement) 'seemed the flying 
Fiend'; the image of his Person acting to recombine the 
multitude of ships into one body, — the point from which 
the comparison set out. ' So seemed,' and to whom seemed? 
To Ihe heavenly Muse who dictates the poem, to the eye 
of the Poet's mind, and to that of the Reader, present at 
one moment in the wide Ethiopian, and the next in the 
solitudes, then first broken in upon, of the infernal regions! 
Modo me Tbebis, modo ponit Attienis. 

Hear again this mighty Poet, — speaking of the Messiah 
going forth to expel from heaven the rebellious angels, 

Attended by ten thousand thousand Saints 
He onward came: far off his coining sbone, — 

the retinue of Saints, and the Person of the Messiah himself. 
lost almost and merged in the splendour of that indefinite 
abstraction 'His coming!' 
As I do not mean here to treat this subject further 



TO POEMS (191S) 



321 



1 to throw some light upon the present Volumes, and 
especially upon one division of them, I shall spare myself 
and the Reader the trouble of considering the Imagination 
as it deals with thoughts and sentiments, as it regulates 
the composition of characters, and determines the course 
of actions: I will not consider it (more than I have already 
done by implication) as that power which, in the language of 
one of my most esteemed Friends, ' draws all things to 
one; which makes things animate or inanimate, beings 
with their attributes, subjects with their accessories, take 
one colour and serve to one effect'.' The grand store- 
houses of enthusiastic and meditative Imagination, of poeti- 
cal, as contra-distinguished from human and dramatic Im- 
agination, are the prophetic and lyrical parts of the Holy 
Scriptures, and the works of Milton; to which I cannot 
forbear to add to those of Spenser. 1 select these writers 
in preference to those of ancient Greece and Rome, be- 
cause the anlhroporaorphitism of the Pagan religion sub- 
jected the minds of the greatest poets in those countries 
too much to the bondage of definite form; from which the 
Hebrews were preserved by their abhorrence of idolatry. 
This abhorrence was almost as strong in our great epic 
Poet, both from circumstances of his life, and from the 
constitution of his mind. However imbued the surface 
might be with classical literature, he was a Hebrew in 
soul ; and all things tended in him towards the sublime, 
Spenser, of a gentler nature, maintained his freedom by 
aid of his allegorical spirit, at one time inciting him to 
create persons out of abstractions; and, at another, by a 
superior effort of genius, to give the universality and 
permanence of abstractions to his human beings, by means 
of attributes and emblems that belong to the highest moral 
truths and the purest sensations, — of which his character 
of Una is a glorious example. Of the human and dramatic 
Imagination the works of Shakespeare are an inexhaustible 
source. 

I tax not you, ye Elements, with unkiodDess, 

I never gave you Wngdoins, call'd you Daughters I 



I And if, bearing i 



mind the many Poets distinguished 

b upon the genius of Qogsitb. 



k 



SB TIXXtAM WORDSWORTH 

by this prime quality, whose names I omit to mention; 
yet justified by recollection of the insults which the ignor- 
ant, the incapable, and the presumptuous, have heaped upon 
these and my other writings, 1 may be pemiitted to an 
pate the judgment of posterity upon myself, I shall de- 
clare (censurable, I grant, if the notoriety of the fact 
above stated does not justify me) that I have given in 
these unfavourable times evidence of exertions of this 
faculty upon its worthiest objects, the external universe, 
the moral and religious sentiments of Man, his natural 
affections, and his acquired passions; which have the s; 
ennobling tendency as the productions of men, in this kind, 
worthy to be holden in undying remembrance. 

To the mode in which Fancy has already been char- 
acterized as the power of evoking and combining, or, as 
my friend Mr. Coleridge has styled it, 'the aggregatit 
and associative power/ my objection is only that the defin 
tion is too general. To aggregate and to associate, ' 
evoke and to combine, belong as wel! to the Imagination 
as to the Fancy; but either the materials evoked and com- 
bined arc different; or they are brought together under a 
different law, and for a different purpose. Fancy does not 
require that the materials which she makes use of should 
be susceptible of change in their constitution, from 
touch; and, where they admit of modification, it is enougb 
for her purpose if it be slight, limited, and evanescent. Di- 
rectly the reverse of these, are the desires and demands 
of the Imagination. She recoils from everything but the 
plastic, the pliant, and the indefinite. She leaves it to 
Fancy to describe Queen Mab as coming. 



Having to speak of stature, she does not tell you that 
her gigantic Angel was as tall as Pompey's Pillar; much 
less that he was twelve cubits, or twelve hundred cubits 
high; or that his dimensions equalled those of Teneriffe 
or Atlas ;— because these, and if they were a million times 
as high it would be the same, are bounded: The expression 
is, ' His stature readied the st^ I ' the illimitable firmi 



TO POEHS (uu) aes 

I'ttentl— When the Imagination frames a comparison, if 
it does not strike on the first presentation, a sense of th» 
truth of tlie likeness, from the moment that it is perceived, 
grows — and continues to grow — upon the mind; the re- 
semblance depending less upon outline of form and fea- 
ture, than upon expression and effect; less upon casual 
and outstanding, than upon inherent and internal, proper- 
ties : moreover, the images invariably modify each other. 
• — The law under which the processes of Fancy are car- 
Tied on is as capricious as the accidents of things, and the 
effects are surprising, playful, ludicrous, amusing, tender, 
or pathetic, as the objects happen to be appositely pro- 
duced or fortunately combined. Fancy depends upon the 
rapidity and profusion with which she scatters her thoughts 
and images; trusting that their number, and the felicity 
with which they are linked together, will make amends 
for the want of individual value: or she prides herself 
upon the curious subtilty and the successful elaboration 
with which she can detect their lurking affinities. If she 
can win you over to her purpose, and impart to you her 
feelings, she cares not how unstable or transitory may 
be her influence, knowing that it will not be out of her 
power to resume it upon an apt occasion. But the Imagin- 
ation is conscious of an indestructible dominion; — the Soul 
may fall away from it, not being able to sustain its grandeur; 
but, if once felt and acknowledged, by no act of any other 
faculty of the mind can it be relaxed, impaired, or dimin- 
ished. — Fancy is given to quicken and to beguile the tem- 
poral part of our nature. Imagination to incite and to sup- 
port the eternal. — Yet is it not the less true that Fancy, 
as she is an active, is also, under her own laws and in 
her own spirit, a creative faculty? In what manner Fancy 
ambitiously aims at a rivalship with Imagination, and Im- 
agination stoops to work with the materials of Fancy, might 
be illustrated from the compositions of all eloquent writers, 
whether in prose or verse; and chiefly from those of our 
own Country. Scarcely a page of the impassioned parts 
of Bishop Taylor's Works can be opened that shall not afford 
examples. — Referring the Reader to those inestimable vol- 
umes, I will content myself with placing a conceit (ascribed 



WnXIAU WORDSWORTH 



rto Lord Chesterfield) i 
I Paradise Lost: 



I contrast with a passage from the 



After the transgression of Adam, Milton, with other ap- 
pearances of sympathizing Nature, thus marks the im- 
mediate consequence. 



The associating link is the same in each instance: Dew 
and rain, not distinguishable from the liquid substance of 
tears, are employed as indications of sorrow. A flash of 
surprise is the effect in the former case; a flash of sur- 
prise, and nothing more ; for the nature of things does not 
sustain the combination. In the latter, the effects from the 
act. of which there is this immediate consequence and 
visible sign, are so momentous, that the mind acknowledges 
the justice and reasonableness of the sympathy in nature so 
manifested; and the sky weeps drops of water as if with 
human eyes, as ' ^arth had before trembled from her 
entrails, and Nature given a second groan.' 

Finally, I will refer to Cotton's Ode upon Winler, an ad- 
mirable composition, though stained with some peculiarities 
of the age in which he lived, for a general illustration of the 
characteristics of Fancy. The middle part of this ode con- 
tains a most lively description of the entrance of Winter, 
with his retinue, as 'A palsied king,' and yet a military 
monarch, — advancing for conquest with his army; the 
several bodies of which, and their arms and equipments, 
are described with a rapidity of detail, and a profusion of 
fanciful comparisons, which indicate on the part of the poet 
extreme activity of intellect, and a correspondent hurry of 
delighltul feeling. Winter retires from the foe into his 
fortress, where 

a magaiine 

Of sovereign juice is cellared In; 

Liquor that will the siege maintafn 

Should Phcebiu ae'er return again. 



TO POEMS (1815) 32S 

■Tiou^ myself a water drinker, I cannot resist the pleasure 
of transcribing what follows, as an instance still more happy 
of Fancy employed in the treatment of feeling than, in its 
preceding passages, the Poem supplies of her management 
_o£ forms. 

Tis that, Iliat gives the poet rag;e, 
And thaws [he gelid blood of age; 
Uatures the young, restores tbe old, 
And makes the faiating coward bold. 

It lays the careful bead to rest, 

Calms palpitations in the breast. ' 

Renders our lives' misforiune sweet ; 

Then let the chill Sirocco blow, 

And gird us round with hilis of snow. 

Or else go whistle to the shore, 

And make the hollow mountains roar. 

Whilst we together jovia! sit 
Careless, and crowned with mirth and wit. 
Where, though bleak winds confine us home 
Our fancies round the world shall ronm. 

We'll think of all the Friends we know, 
And drink to all worth drinking to; 
When having drunk all thine and mine. 
We rather shall want healths than wine. 

But where Friends fail us, we'll supply 
Our friendships with our charity ; 
Men that remote in sorrows live. 
Shall by our lusty brimmers thrive. 

We'll drink the wanting into wealthy 
And those Ibat languish into health, 
The afflicted into joy; Ih' opprest 
Into security and resL 

The worthy in disgrace shall find 
Favour return again more kind, 
And in restraint who stifled lie, 
Shell taste the air of liberty. 

The brave shall triumph in success, 
The lover shall have mislressea. 
Poor unregarded Virtue, praise, 
And the neglected Poet, bays. 



326 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

Thus shall our healths do others good. 
Whilst we ourselves do all we would; 
For, freed from envy and from care, 
What would we be but what we are? 

When I sate down to write this Preface, it was my inten- 
tion to have made it more comprehensive; but, thinking 
that I ought rather to apologize for detaining the reader so 
long, I will here conclude. 



ESSAY SUPPLEMENTARY TO 

PREFACE 

(18.5) 

WITH the young of both sexesj Poetry is, Hkc love, a 
passion; but, for much the greater part of those 
who have been proud of its power over their minds, 
a necessity soon arises of breaking the pleasing bondage ; or 
it relaxes oi itself; — the thoughts being occupied in domestic 
cares, or the time engrossed by business. Poetry then becomes 
only an occasional recreation ; while to those whose existence 
passes away in a course of fashionable pleasure, it is a species 
of luxurious amusement. In middle and declining age, 
scattered number of serious persons resort to poetry, as t 
religion, for a protection against the pressure at trivial era 
ployments, and as a consolation for the afflictions of life. 
And, lastly, there are many, who, having been enamoured 
of this art in their youth, have found leisure, after youth was 
spent, to cultivate general literature ; in which poetry has 
continued to be comprehended as a study. 

Into the above classes the Readers of poetry may be 
divided; Critics abound in them all; but from the last only 
can opinions be collected of absolute value, and worthy to 
he depended upon, as prophetic of the destiny of a new work. 
The young, who in nothing can escape delusion, are especial- 
ly subject to it in their intercourse with Poetry. The cause, 
not so obvious as the fact is unquestionable, is the same as 
that from which erroneous judgements in this art, in 
minds of men of all ages, chiefly proceed; but upon Youth 
it operates with peculiar force. The appropriate business 
of poetry {which, nevertheless, if genuine, is as permanent 
as pure science), her appropriate employment, her privilege 
and her duty, is to treat of things not as they are, but as 
they appear; not as they exist in themselves, but as they stem 
to exist to the settses, and to the passions. What a world of 
327 



WILOAM WORDSWORTH 

delusion docs this acknowledged obligation prepare for the 
inexperienced ! what temptations to go astray are here held 
forth for them whose thoughts have tieen little disciplined by 
the understanding, and whose feelings revolt from the sway 
of reason! — When a juvenile Reader is in the height of his 
rapture with some vicious passage, should experience throw 
in doubts, or common sense suggest suspicions, a lurking 
consciousness that the realities of the Muse are but shows, 
and that her liveliest excitements are raised by transient 
shocks of conflicting feeling and successive assemblages of 
contradictory thoughts — is ever at hand to justify extrav- 
agance, and to sanction absurdity. But, it may be asked, as 
these illusions are unavoidable, and, no doubt, eminently 
useful to the mind as a process, what good can be gained by 
making observations, the tendency of which is to diminish 
the confidence of youth in its feelings, and thus to abridge its 
innocent and even proiitable pleasures? The reproach im- 
plied in the question could not be warded off, if Youth were 
incapable of being delighted with what is truly excellent ; or, 
if these errors always terminated of themselves in due sea- 
son. But, with the majority, though their force be abated, 
they continue through life. Moreover, the fire of youth 
is too vivacious an element to be extinguished or damped 
by a philosophical remark; and, while there is no danger 
that what has been said will be injurious or painful to the 
ardent and the confident, it may prove beneficial to those 
who, being enthusiastic, are, at the same time, modest and 
ingenuous. The intimation may unite with their own mis- 
givings to regulate their sensibility, and to bring in, sooner 
than it would otherwise have arrived, a more discreet and 
sound judgement. 

If it should excite wonder that men of ability, in later 
life, whose understandings have been rendered acute by 
practice in affairs, should be so easily and so far imposed 
upon when they happen to take up a new work in verse, 
this appears to be the cause; — that, having discontinued 
their attention to poetry, whatever progress may have been 
made in other departments of knowledge, they have not, as 
to this art, advanced in true discernment beyond the age of 
jxmth. If, then, a new poem fall in their way, irhose : ' 



SUPPLEMENTARY ESSAY (1815) 329 

ractions arc of that kind which would have enraptured 
aem during the heat of youth, the judgement not being 
improved to a degree that they shall be disgusted, they 
are dazzled; and prize and cherish the faults for having 
had power to make the present time vanish before them, and 
to throw the mind back, as hy enchantment, into the happiest 
season of life. As they read, powers seem to be revived, 
passions are regenerated, and pleasures restored. The Book 
was probably taken up after an escape from the burden of 
business, and with a wish to forget the world, and all its 
vexations and anxieties. Having obtained this wish, and 
so much more, it is natural that they should make report 
as they have felt. 

If Men of mature age, through want of practice, be thus 
easily beguiled into admiration of absurdities, extravagances, 
and misplaced ornaments, thinking it proper that their under- 
standings should enjoy a holiday, while they are unbending 
their minds with verse, it may be expected that such Readers 
will resemble their former selves also in strength of prejudice, 
and an inaptitude to be moved by the unostentatious beauties 
of a pure style. In the higher poetry, an enlightened Critic 
chiefly looks for a reflection of the wisdom of the heart 
and the grandeur of the imagination. Wherever these ap- 
pear, simplicity accompanies them; Magnificence herself, 
when legitimate, depending upon a simplicity of her ovm, 
to regulate her ornaments. But it is a well-known property 
of human nature, that our estimates are ever governed by 
comparisons, of which we are conscious with various de- 
grees of distinctness. Is it not, then, inevitable (confining 
these observations to the effects of style merely) that an eye, 
accustomed to the glaring hues of diction by which such 
Readers are caught and excited, will for the most part 
be rather repelled than attracted by an original Work, the 
colouring of which is disposed according to a pure and re- 
fined scheme of harmony? It is in the fine arts as in the 
affairs of life, no man can serve (i, e. obey with zeal and 
fidelity) two Masters, 

As Poetry is most just to its own divine origin when it 
administers the comforts and breathes the spirit of religion, 
they who have learned to perceive this truth, and who be- 



WILUAM WORDSWOBTH 

take tbemselves to reading verse for aacred purposes, must 
be preserved from numerous illusions to which the two 
Gasses of Readers, whom we have been considering, are 
liable. But, as the mind grows serious from the weight of 
life, the range of its passions is contracted accordingly; 
and its sympathies become so exclusive, that many species 
of high excellence wholly escape, or but languidly excite, 
its notice. Besides, men who read from religious or moral 
inclinations, even when the subject is of that kind which 
they approve, are beset with misconceptions and mistakes 
peculiar to themselves. Attaching so much importance to 
the truths which interest them, they are prone to over- 
rate the Authors by whom those truths are expressed 
and enforced. They come prepared to impart so much pas- 
sion to the Poet's language, that they remain unconscious 
how little, in fact, they receive from it. And, on the other 
hand, religious faith is to him who holds it so momentous 
a thing, and error appears to be attended with such tremend- 
ous consequences, that, if opinions touching upon religion 
occur which the Reader condemns, he not only cannot sym- 
pathize with them, however animated the expression, but 
there is, for the most part, an end put to all satisfaction 
and enjoyment. Love, if it before existed, is converted into 
dislike; and the heart of the Reader is set against the Author 
and his book. — To these excesses, they, who from their pro- 
fessions ought to be the most guarded against them, arc 
perhaps the most liable; I mean those sects whose religion, 
being from the calculating understanding, is cold and formal. 
For when Christianity, the religion of humility, is founded 
upon the proudest faculty of our nature, what can be ex- 
pected but contradictions? Accordingly, believers of this 
cast are at one time contemptuous; at another, being 
troubled, as they are and must be, with inward misgivings, 
they are jealous and suspicious ; — and at all seasons, they 
are under temptation to supply by the heat with which they 
defend their tenets, the animation which ts vranting to the 
constitution of the religion itself. 

Faith was given to man that his affections, detached from 
the treasures of time, might be inclined to settle upon those 
of eternity; — the elevation of his nature, which this habit 




SUPPLEMENTAHY ESSAY (1815) JSJ 

produces on earth, being to him a presumptive evidence of 
a future state of existence; and giving him a title to par- 
take of its holiness. The religious man values what he sees 
chiefly as an ' imperfect shadowing forth ' of what he is in- 
capable of seeing. The concerns of religion refer to indefinite 
objects, and are too weighty for the mind to support them 
without relieving itself by resting a great part of the burthen 
upon words and symbols. The commerce between Man and 
his Maker cannot be carried on but by a process where much 
is represented in Utile, and the Infinite Being accommodates 
himself to a finite capacity. In all this may be perceived 
the affinity between religion and poetry; between religion- 
making up the deficiencies of reason by faith; and poetry 
— passionate for the instruction of reason; between reli- 
gion — whose element is infinitude, and whose ultimate 
trust is the supreme of things, submitting herself to cir- 
cumscription, and reconciled to substitutions ; and poetry 
— ethereal and transcendent, yet incapable to sustain her 
existence without sensuous incarnation. In this community 
of nature may be perceived also the lurking incitements of 
kindred error; — so that we shall find that no poetry has 
been more subject to distortion, than that species, the argu- 
ment and scope of which is religious; and no lovers of the 
art have gone farther astray than the pious and the devout. 

Whither then shall we turn for that union of qualifica- 
tions which must necessarily exist before the decisions of 
a critic can be of absolute value? For a mind at once 
poetical and philosophical; for a critic whose affections are 
as free and kindly as the spirit of society, and whose un- 
derstanding is severe as that of dispassionate government? 
Where are we to look for that initiatory composure of 
mind which no selfishness can disturb? For a natural sensi- 
bility that has been tutored into correctness without losing 
anything of its quickness; and for active faculties, capable 
of answering the demands which an Author of original 
imagination shall make upon them, associated with a judge- 
ment that cannot he duped into admiration by aught that is 
unworthy of it? — among those and those only, who, never 
having suffered their youthful love of poetn,' to remit much 
of its iorcc^ have applied to the consideration of the laws 



WIU-IAM WORDSWOHTH 

of this art the best power of their understandings. At the 
same time it must be observed — that, as this Class com- 
prehends the only judgements which are trustworthy, so does 
it include the most erroneous and perverse. For to be 
mistaughl is worse than to be untaught ; and no perverse- 
ness equals that which is supported by system, no errors are 
so difficult to root out as those whicli tlie understanding has 
pledged its credit to uphold. In this Class are contained 
censors, who, if they be pleased with what is good, are 
pleased with it only by imperfect glimpses, and upon false 
principles ; who, should they generalize rightly, to a certain 
point, are sure to suffer for it in the end; who, if they 
stumble upon a sound rule, are fettered by misapplying it, 
or by straining it too far; being incapable pf perceiving 
when it ought to yeild to one of higher order. In it are 
found critics too petulant to* be passive to a genuine poet, 
and too feeble to grapple with him; men, who take upon 
them to report of the course which he holds whom they 
are utterly unable to accompany, — confounded if he turn 
quick upon the wing, dismayed if he soar steadily ' into 
the region"; — men of palsied imaginations and indurated 
hearts; in whose minds all healthy action is languid, who 
therefore feed as the many direct them, or, with the many, 
are greedy after vicious provocatives ; — judges, whose cen- 
sure is auspicious, and whose praise ominous ! In this class 
meet together the two extremes of best and worst, 

The observations presented in the foregoing series are 
of too ungracious a nature to have been made without re- 
luctance ; and, were it only on this account, I would invite 
the reader to try them by the test of comprehensive ex- 
perience. If the number of judges who can be confidently 
relied upon be in reality so small, it ought to follow that 
partial notice only, or neglect, perhaps long continued, or 
attention wholly inadequate to their merits — must have been 
the fate of most works in the higher departments of poetry; 
and that, on the other hand, numerous productions have 
blazed into popularity, and have passed away, leaving scarcely 
a trace behind them: it will be further found, that when 
Authors shall have at length raised themselves into general 
admiration and maintained their ground, errors and prejU' 







StJPPLEMENTARY ESSAY (1B15) 

ices have prevailed concerning their genius and their works, 
Arfiich the few who are conscious o! those errors and preju- 
dices would deplore; if they were not recompensed by per- 
ceiving that there are select Spirits for whom it is ordained 
that their fame shall be in the world an existence like that 
of Virtue, which owes its being to the struggles it makes, 
and its vigour to the enemies whom it provokes; — a vi- 
vacious quality, ever doomed to meet with opposition, and 
still triumphing over it; and, from the nature of its do- 
minion, incapable of being brought to the sad conclusion of 
Alexander, when he wept that there were no more worlds 
for him to conquer. 

Let us take a hasty retrospect of the poetical literature of 
this Country for the greater part of the last two centuries, 
and see if the facts support these inferences. 

Who is there that now reads the Creation of Dubartas? 
Yet all Europe once resounded with his praise; he was 
caressed by kings ; and, when his Poem was translated into 
our language, the Faery Queen faded before it. The name 
of Spenser, whose genius is of a higher order than even 
that of Ariosto, is at this day scarcely known beyond the 
limits of the British Isles. And if the value of his works is 
to be estimated from the attention now paid to them by his 
countrymen, compared with that which they bestow on those 
of some other writers, it must be pronounced small indeed. 



words; but his wisdom has, in this particular, 
■*t»een his worst enemy: while i(s opposite, whether in the 
shape of folly or madness, has been tlieir best friend. But 
he was a great power, and bears a high name : the laurel has 
been awarded to him. 

A dramatic Author, if he write for the stage, must adapt 
himself to the taste of the audience, or they will not endure 
him; accordingly the mighty genius of Shakespeare was lis- 
tened to. The people were delighted: but I am not suf- 
ficiently versed in stage antiquities to determine whether 
they did not flock as eagerly to the representation of many 
pieces of contemporary Authors, wholly undeserving to ap- 




WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

pear upon tbe same boards. Had there been a lomal contest 
for superiority among dramatic writers, that Shakespeare, 
like his predecessors Sophocles and Euripides, would have 
often been subject to the mortification of seeing the priic 
adjudged to sorry competitors, becomes too probable, when 
we reflect that the admirers of Settle and Shadwell were, in 
a, later age, as numerous, and reckoned as respectable, in 
point of talent, as those of Dryden, At all events, that 
Shakespeare stooped to accommodate himself to the Peo- 
ple, is sufficiently apparent; and one of the most striking 
proofs of his almost omnipotent genius is, that he could turn 
to such glorious purpose those materials which the prepoS' 
sessions of the age compelled him to make use of. Yet even 
this marvellous skill appears not to have been enough to 
prevent his rivals from having some advantage over him 
in public estimation ; else how can we account for passages 
and scenes that exist in his works, unless upon a supposition 
that some of the grossest of them, a fact which in my own 
mind I have no doubt of, were foisted in by the Players, 
for the gratification of the many ? 

But that his Works, whatever might be their reception 
upon the stage, made but little impression upon the mling 
Intellects of the time, may be inferred from the fact tiiat 
Lord Bacon, in his multifarious writings, nowhere either 
quotes or alludes to him.* His dramatic e^tcellence enabled 
him to resume possession of the stage afler the Restoration ; 
but Dryden tells us that in his time two of the plays of 
Beaumont and Fletcher were acted for one of Shakespeare's. 
And so faint and limited was the perception of the poetic 
beauties of his dramas in the time of Pope, that, in his Edi- 
tion of the Plays, with a view of rendering to the general 
reader a necessary service, he printed between inverted com- 
mas those passages which he thought most worthy of notice. 

At this day, the French Critics have abated nothing of 
their aversion to this darling of our Nation: 'the English, 
with their boufFon de Shakespeare,' is as familiar an ex' 

■TIiB teamed Hibewill fa third edition e 
wriUne lo refute the etror ■ to-.^hmB N. 
Stay.' cilBS triumphinll)' the nan 

tlHi of Skaktvearc 



fftiDSe book tvan (ttle 1635), 



SUPPLEMENTARY BSSAY (181S) SSB 

presilon among them as in the time of Voltaire. Baron 
Grimm is the only French writer who seems to have pcr^ 
ceived his infinite superiority to the first names of the French 
Theatre ; an advantage which the Parisian Critic owed to his 
German blood and German education. The most enlightened 
Italians, though well acquainted with our language. arA 
wholly incompetent to measure the proportions of Shake- 
speare. The Germans only, of foreign nations, are ap- 
proaching towards a knowledge and feeling of what he is. 
In some respects they have acquired a superiority over the 
fellow countrymen of the Poet: for among us it is a cur- 
rent, I might say, an estabhshed opinion, that Shakespeare 
is justly praised when he is pronounced to be ' a wild ir- 
regular genius, in whom great faults are compensated by 
great beauties.' How long may it be before this miscon- 
ception passes away, and it becomes universally acknowl- 
edged that the judgement of Shakespeare in the selection of 
his materials, and in the manner in which he has made 
them, heterogeneous as they often are, constitute a unity of 
their own, and contribute all to one great end, is not less 
admirable than his imagination, his invention, and his in- 
tuitive knowledge of human Nature? 

There is extant a small Volume of miscellaneous poems, 
in which Shakespeare expresses his own feelings in his owD 
person. It is not diJBcuIt to conceive that the Editor, George 
Steevens, should have been insensible to the beauties of 
one portion of that Volume, the Soimets ; though in no part 
of the writings of this Poet is found, in an equal compass, 
a greater number of exquisite feelings felicitously expressed. 
But, from regard to the Critic's own credit, he would not 
have ventured to talk of an' act of parliament not being 
strong enough to compel the perusal of those little pieces, 
if he had not known that the people of England were ig- 
norant of the treasures contained in them: and if he had 
not, moreover, shared the too common propensity of human 
nature to exult over a supposed fall into the mire of a genius 



flippant ii 



3 publicly T 



rehmded by Mr. ColcridgE in 



tVr 1<17> io8> I09> I 



1I3> Ii4i ii<Si Ii7i I39i and m 



WILUAH WORDSW OB T H 

whom he had been eompelled to regard whfa sdminltcm, U 
an inmate of the celutUI regioas— ' tbere sitting where be 
iant not soar.' 

Nine years before the death of Shakespeare, Milton was 
bom; and early in life be published several small poems, 
which, though on their first appearance tbey were praised 
by a few of the judicious, were afterwards neglected to 
that degree, that Pope in his youth could borrow from them 
without risk of its being Icnown. Whether these poems are 
at this day justly appreciated, I will not undertake to de- 
cide: nor would it imply a serere re6ection upon the mass 
of readers to suppose the contrary; seeing that a man of the 
acknowledged genius of Voss, the German poet, could sufTet 
their spirit to evaporate; and could change their character, 
as is done in the translation made by him of the most popular 
of these pieces. At all events, it is certain that these Poems 
of Milton are now much read, and loudly praised ; yet were 
thej- little heard of till more than 150 years after their pob- 
li'-ation; and oC the Sonnets, Dr. Johnson, as appears from 
Boswell's Life of him. was in the habit of thinking and 
speaking as contemptuously as Steevens wrote upon those 
of Shakespeare. 

About the time when the Pindaric odes of Cowley and 
his imitators, and the productions of that class of curious 
thinkers whom Dr. Johnson has strangely styled meta- 
physical Poets, were beginning to lose something of that 
extravagant admiration which they had excited, the Paradise 
Lost made its appearance. ' Fit audience find though few,' 
was the petition addressed by the Poet to his inspiring Muse, 
I have said elsewhere that he gained more than he asked; 
this I believe to be true; but Dr. Johnson has fallen into a 
gross mistake when he attempts to prove, by the sale of the 
work, that Milton's Countrjmen were ' jitsi to it' upon its 
first appearance. Thirteen hundred Copies were sold in two 
years; an uncommon example, he asserts, of the prevalence 
of genius in opposition to so much recent enmity as Milton's 
public conduct had excited. But, be it remembered that, if 
Milton's political and religious opinions, and the manner in 
which he announced them, had raised him many enemies, 
they had procured him numerous friends ; who, as all per* 



sonal danger was passed away at the time of publication, 
would be eager to procure the master-work of a man whom 
they revered, and wiiom they would be proud of praising. 
Take, from the number of purchasers, persons of this class, 
and also those who wished to possess the Poem as a re- 
ligious work, and but few I fear would be left who sought 
for it on account of its poetical merits. The demand did not 
immediately increase ; ' for,' says Dr. Jolmson. ' many more 
readers' (he means persons in the habit of reading poetry) 
' than were supplied at first the Nation did not afford' How 
careless must a writer be who can make this assertion in the 
face of so many existing title-pages to belie it ! Turning to 
my own shelves, I find the folio qi Cowley, seventh edition, 
1681. A book near it is Flatraan's Poems, fourth edition, 
1686; Waller, fifth edition, same date. The Poems of Norris 
of Bemerton not long after went, I believe, through nine 
editions. What further demand there might be for these 
works I do not know ; but I well remember that, twenty-five 
years ago, the booksellers' stalls in London swarmed with 
the folios of Cowley. This is not mentioned in disparage- 
ment of that able writer and amiable man; but merely to 
show that, if Milton's Works were not more read, it was not 
because readers did not exist at the time. The early editions 
of the Paradise Lost were printed in a shape which allowed 
them to be sold at a low price, yet only three thousand 
copies of the Work were sold in eleven years; and the Nation, 
says Dr. Johnson, had been satisfied from 1623 to 1664, that 
is, forty-one years, with only two editions of the Works of 
Shakespeare ; which probably did not together make one 
thousand Copies ; facts adduced by the critic to prove the 
'paucity of Readers." — There were readers in multitudes; 
but their money went for other purposes, as their admiration 
was fixed elsewhere. We are authorized, then, to affirm that 
the reception of the Paradise Lost, and the slow progress of 
its fame, are proofs as striking as can be desired that the 
positions which I am attempting to establish are not errone- 
ous.' — How amusing to shape to one's self such a critique as 



IBngbM is npreu upon Ih 
Worhs to Lord Sancrs, he wrilc 
1 btauiiful edition of Paradite 
Poau to be Bcserally known an 



Bubjeci 



of Sppn 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

a Wit of Charles's days, or a Lord of the Miscellani&s or 
trading Journalht o£ King William's time, would have 
brought forth, if he had set his faculties industriously lo 
work upon this Poem, everywhere impregnated with original 
excellence. 

So strange indeed are the obliquities of admiration, that 
thcy whose opinions are much influenced by authority will 
often be tempted to think that ihere are no fixed principles' 
in human nature for this art to rest upon. I have been 
honoured by being permitted to peruse in MS. a tract com- 
posed between the period of the Revolution and the close of 
that century. It is the Work of an English Peer of high 
accomplishments, its object to form the character and direct 
the studies of his son. Perhaps nowhere does a more beau- 
tiful treatise of the kind exist The good sense and wisdom 
of the thoughts, the delicacy of the feelings, and the charm 
of the style, are, throughout, equally conspicuous. Yet the 
Author, selecting among the Poets of his own country those 
whom he deems most worthy of his son's perusal, particular- 
izes only Lord Rochester, Sir John Denhara, and Cowley. 
Writing about the same time, Shaftesbury, an author at 
present unjustly depreciated, describes the English Muses as 
only yet lisping in their cradles. 

The arts by which Pope, soon afterwards, contrived to 
procure to himself a more general and a higher reputation 
than perhaps any English Poet ever attained during his 
lifetime, are known to the judicious. And as well known is 
it to them, that the undue exertion of those arts is the cause 
why Pope has for some time held a rank in literature, to 
which, if he had not been seduced by an over-love of im- 
mediate popularity, and had confided more in his native 
genius, he never could have descended. He bewitched the 
nation by his melody, and dazzled it by his polished style 
and was himself blinded by his own success. Having wan- 
dered from humanity in his Eclogues with boyish inexperi- 
ence, the praise, which these compositions obtained, tempted 
him into a belief that Nature was not to be trusted, at least 
in pastoral Poetry. To prove this by example, he put his 

•This opinion iptm! aclually to haTf bfdn enlrrtained by Adam Smith. 
>ho worst cnlic. David Hume not f.depted, that Seotland, a uU to which 
Oiii Kin of wetd Bcema natuial, luu produwd. 



SUPPLEMEKTAHT ESSAY (1915) 339 

snd Gay upon writing those Eclogues which their author 
intended to be burlesque. The instigator of the work, and 
his admirers, could perceive in them nothing but what was 
ridiculous. Nevertheless, though these Poems contain some 
detestable passages, the effect, as Dr. Johnson well observes, 
' of reality and truth became conspicuous even when the 
intention was to show them grovelling and degraded.' The 
Pastorals, iudicrons to such as prided themselves upon their 
refinement, in spite of those disgusting passages, 'became 
popular, and were read with delight, as just representations 
of rural manners and occupations.' 

Something less than sixty years after the publication of 
the Paradise Lost appeared Thomson's Winter; which was 
speedily followed by his other Seasons. It is a work of 
inspiration ; much of it ts written from himself, and nobly 
from himself. How was it received? 'It was no sooner 
read,' says one of his contemporary biographers, ' than uni- 
versally admired: those only excepted who had not been used 
to feel, or to look for anything in poetry, beyond a point 
of satirical or epigrammatic wit, a smart antithesis richly 
trimmed with rime, or the softness of an elegiac complaint. 
To such his manly classical spirit could not readily com- 
mend itself ; till, after a more attentive perusal, they had 
got the better of their prejudices, and either acquired or 
affected a truer taste. A few others stood aloof, merely 
because they had long before fixed the articles of their 
poetical creed, and resigned themselves to an absolute de- 
spair of ever seeing anything new and original. These were 
somewhat mortified to find their notions disturbed by the 
appearance of a poet, who seemed to owe nothing but to 
nature and his own genius. But, in a short time, the ap- 
plause became unanimous; every one wondering how so 
many pictures, and pictures so familiar, should have moved 
them but faintly to what they felt in his descriptions. His 
digressions too, the overflowings of a tender benevolent 
heart, charmed the reader no less ; leaving him in dotibt, 
whether he should more admire the Poet or love the Man,' 

This case appears to bear strongly against us: — but 
we must distinguish belween wonder and legitimate admira- 
tion. The subject of the work is the changes produced in 



HO 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 



the appearances of nature by the revolution of the year: 
and, ijj undertaking to write in verse, Thomson pledged 
himself to treat his subject as became a Poet Now, it is 
remarkable that, excepting the nocturnal Reverie of Lady 
IVinckcUea, and a passage or two in the IVindsor Forest 
of Pope, the poetry of the period intervening between the 
publicalion of the Paradise Lost and the Seasons does not 
contain a single new image of external nature ; and scarcely 
presents a familiar one from which it can be inferred that the 
eye of the Poet has been steadily fixed upon his object, much 
less that his feelings hLd urged him to work upon it in 
the spirit of genuine imagination. To what a low state 
knowledge of the most obvipus and important phenomena 
had sunk, is evident from the style in which Dryden has 
executed a description of Night in one of his Tragedies, 
and Pope his translation of the celebrated moonh'ght scene 
in the Iliad. A blind man, in the habit of attending ac- 
curately to descriptions casually dropped from the lips of 
those around him, might easily depict these appearances with 
more truth. Drydcn's lines are vague, bombastic, and sense- 
less;' those of Pope, though he had Homer to guide him, 
are throughout false and contradictory. The verses of Dry- 
den, once highly celebrated, are forgotten; those of Pope 
stilJ retain their hold upon public estimation, — nay, there is 
not a passage of descriplive poetry, which at this day finds 
so many and such ardent admirers. Strange to think of an 
enthusiast, as may have been the case with thousands, re- 
citing those verses under the cope of a moonlight sky, 
without having his raptures in the least disturbed by a sus- 
picion of their absurdity ! — If these two distinguished writers 
could habitually think that the visible universe was of so 
little consequence to a poet, that it was scarcely necessary 
for him to cast his eyes upon it, we may be assured that 
those passages of the elder poets which faithfully and poeti- 
cally describe the phenomena of nature, were not at that 



't Iniu* Emfmr- 



SUPPLEMENTARY ESSAY (I81S) 



341 



e bolden in much estimation, and that there was little ac- 
iMirate attention paid to those appearances. 

Wonder is the natural product of Ignorance; and as the 
soil was »H suck good condition at the time of the publication 
of the Seasons the crop was doubtless abundant. Neither in- 
dividuals nor nations become corrupt all at once, nor are they 
enlightened in a moment Thomson was an inspired poet, 
but he could not work miracles; in cases where the art 
of seeing had in some degree been learned, the teaclier would 
further the proficiency of his pupils, but he could do little 
more; though so far does vanity assist men in acts of self- 
deception, that many would often fancy ttiey recognized a 
likeness when they knew nothing of the original. Having 
shown that much of what his biographer deemed genuine 
admiration must in fact have been blind wonderment — how 
is ihe rest to be accounted for? — Thomson was fortunate 
in the very title of his poem, which seemed to bring it home 
to the prepared sympathies of every one : in the next place, 
notwithstanding his high powers, he writes a vicious style; 
and his false ornament^ are exactly of that kind which would 
be most likely to strike the undisceming. He likewise 
abounds with sentimental commonplaces, that, frorn the 
manner in which they were brought forward, bore an im- 
posing air of novelty. In any well-used copy of the Seasons 
the book generally opens of itself with the rhapsody on love, 
or with one of the stories ( perhaps ' Damon and Musidora') ; 
these also are prominent in our collections of Extracts, and 
are the parts of his Work which, after all, were probably 
most efficient in first recommending the author to general 
notice. Pope, repaying praises which he had received, and 
wishing to extol him to the highest, only styles him 'an 
elegant and philosophical Poet'; nor are we able to collect 
any unquestionable proofs that the true characteristics of 
Thomson's genius as an imaginative poet " were perceived, 
til! the elder Warton, almost forty years after the publica- 
tion of the Seasons, pointed them out by a note in his 



■ upon Thou 



"wEoie wor'i 



• 



WIIXtAM WORDSWORTH 

E»ay on the Life and Writings of Pope. In the Castle of 
Indolence (of which Gray speaks so coldly) these charac- 
teristics were almost as conspicuously displayed, and io 
verse more hiirmonioits aod diction more pure. Yet that 
fine poem was neglected on its appearance, and is at this day 
the delight only of a fewl 

When Thomson died, Collins breathed forth his regrets 
an Elegiac Poem, in whicli he pronounces a poetical curse 
Upon him who should regard with insensibihty the place 
where the Poet's remains were deposited. The Poems of 
the mourner himself have now passed through innumerable 
editions, and are universally known; but if, when Collins 
died, the same kind o( imprecation had been pronounced 
by a surviving admirer, small is the number whom it would 
not have comprehended- The notice which his poems at- 
tained during his lifetime was so small, and of course the 
sale so insignificant, that not long before his death he deemed 
it right to repay to the bookseller the sum which he had ad- 
vanced for them and threw the edition into the fire. 

Next in importance to the Seasons of Thomson, though 
a considerable distance from that work in order of time, 
come the Reliqucs of Ancient English Poetry; collected, new- 
modelled, and in many instances (if such a contradiction in 
terms may be used) composed by the Editor, Dr. Percy. 
This work did not steal silently into the world, as is evident 
from the number of legendary tales, that appeared not long 
after its publication; and had been modelled, as the authors 
persuaded themselves, after the old Ballad. The Compila- 
tion was, however, ill suited to the then existing taste of 
city society ; and Dr. Johnson, "mid the little senate to which 
he gave laws, was not sparing in his exertions to make it an 
object of contempt. The critic triumphed, the legendary n 
itators were deservedly disregarded, and, as undeservedly, 
their ill-imitated models sank, in this country, into temporary 
neglect; while Burger, and other able writers of Germany, 
were translating or imitating these Reliques, and composing, 
with the aid of inspiration thence derived, poems which a 
the delight of the German nation. Dr. Percy was so abashed 
by the ridicule flung upon his labours from the ignorance 
uid insensibility of the persons with whom he lived, that. 



SUPPLEMENTARY ESSAY (181S) 343 

I while he was writing under a mask lie had not 
wanted resolution to follow his genius into the regions of 
true simplicity and genuine pathos (as is evinced by the 
exquisite ballad of Sir CauUne and by many other pieces), 
yet when he appeared in his own person and character as 
a poetical writer, he adopted, as in the tale of the Hermit 
of Warkworth, a diction scarcely in any one of its features 
distinguishable from the vague, the glossy, and unfeeling 
language of his day. I mention this remarkable fact" with 
regret, esteeming the genius of Dr. Percy in this kind of 
writing superior to that of any other man by whom in mod- 
ern times it has been cultivated. That even Burger (to whom 
Klopstock gave, in my hearing, a commendation which he 
denied to Goethe and Schiller, pronouncing him to be a 
genuine poet, and one of the few among the Germans whose 
works would last) had not the fine sensibility of Percy, 
might be shown from many passages, in which he has de- 
serted his original only to go astray. For example. 

Now daye was gone, and niglit was come. 
And all were fast aalecpe, 
All save the Lady Erncline, 
Who sate in her bowre to weepe : 

And soone she heard her true Love's voice 
Low whispering at Ihe walle, 
Awake, awake, my dear Ladye, 
'Tis 1 thy true-love call. 

bich is thus tricked out and dilated; 

Als nun die Nacht Gebirg" und Thai 
Vermuramt in Rabcnschattcn, 
Und Hocbburgs Lampen uberall 
Schon ausge&immeTt hatten, 
Und allea tief eotschlafen war; 
Doch nur das Fraulein imnterdar. 
Vol! Fiel)eran8St, noch wachte, 
Und seinen Ritter dachte: 



P'SheDMDae, in bis Schof>lm;aress . eivcs ■ still more 


remarkable instance 


Br this timidily. On \K fits! aPBrarancc (see D'Israeli 
CartoJlIi" of Lilttal«rt) Itae Poem was aKompanied w 




th an absurd prose 




essiods in ite ten 


imply, that the whole was intended for burle«jue. In 


lubsequent editions, 


the commentary was dropped, and (he People have sine 


continued to read 


in seriousnesi, doing for the Authoc what he had not 


Gourace openly to 


TmtDTe upon for himself. 





I WILLIAJT WOBDSWORTH 

Da horch 1 Ein suwer Uebcston 
Kaai leis' eropor gcflogen. 
* Ho. Tnidchen, ho I Da bin ich schon ! 
Frisch auf I Dicb anguogen 1 ' 

But from humble ballads we must ascend to heroics. 

All hail, Macpherson! hail to thee. Sire of Ossian! The 
Phantom was begotten by the snug embrace of an im- 
pudent Highlander upon a cloud of tradition — it travelled 
southward, where it was greeted with acclamation, and the 
thin Consistence took its course through Europe, upon the 
breath of popular applause. The Editor of the Reliques 
had indirectly preferred a claim to the praise of in- 
vention, by not concealing that his supplementary labours 
were considerable! how selfish his conduct, contrasted with 
that of the disinterested Gael, who, like L*ar, gives his 
kingdom away, and is content to become a pensioner upon 
his own issue for a beggarly pittance ! — Open this far-famed 
Book I — I have done so at random, and the beginning of the 
Epic Poem Tentora, in eight Books, presents itself. 'The 
blue waves of UUin roll in fight. The green hills are covered 
with day. Trees shake their dusky heads in the breeze. 
Grey torrents pour their noisy streams. Two green hills 
with aged oaks surround a narrow plain. The blue course 
of a stream is there. On its banks stood Cairbar of Atha. 
His spear supports the king; the red eyes of his fear are 
aad. Cormac rises on his soul with all his ghastly wounds,' 
Precious memorandums from the pocket-book of the blind 
Ossian ! 

H it be unbecoming, as I acknowledge that for the most 
part it is, to speak disrespectfully of Works that have en- 
joyed for a length of time a widely-spread reputation, with- 
out at the same time producing irrefragable proofs of their 
imworthiness, let me be forgiven upon this occasion. — ^Hav- 
ing had the good fortune to be bom and reared in a moun- 
tainous country, from my very childhood I have felt the 
falsehood that pervades the volumes imposed upon the world 
under the name of Ossian. From what I saw witli my own 
eyes, I knew that the imagery was spurious. In nature 
everything is distinct, yet nothing defined into absolute in- 
dependent singleness. In Macphecson'e work it is exactljj 




SUPPLEMENTARY ESSAY (1815) 

the reverse ; everything (that is not stolen) is in this manner 
defined, insulated, dislocated, deadened, — yet nothing dis- 
tinct. It will always be so when words are substituted for 
things. To say that the characters never could exist, that 
the manners are impossible, and that a dream has more sub- 
stance than the whole state of society, as there depicted, is 
doing nothing more than pronouncing a censure which Mac- 
pherson defied; when, with the steeps of Morven before his 
eyes, he could talk so familiarly of his Car-borne heroes;— 
of Morven, which, if one may judge from its appearance at 
the distance of a few miles, contains scarcely an acre of 
ground sufficiently accommodating for a sledge to be trailed 
along its surface, — Mr. Malcolm Laing has ably shown that 
the diction of this pretended translation is a motley as- 
semblage from all quarters; but he is so fond of making 
out parallel passages as to call poor Macpherson to account 
for his 'ands' and his 'buls!' and he has weakened his 
argument by conducting it as if he thought that every strik- 
ing resemblance was a conscious plagiarism. It is enough 
that the coincidences are too remarkable for its being prob- 
able or possible that they could arise in different minds 
without communication between them. Now as the Trans- 
lators of the Bible, and Shakespeare, Milton, and Pope, 
could not be indebted to Macpherson, it follows that he 
must have owed his fine feathers to them; unless we are 
prepared gravely to assert, with Madame de Stael, that 
many of the characteristic beauties of our most celebrated 
English Poets are derived from the ancient Fingallian; in 
which case the modern translator would have been but giv- 
ing back to Ossian his own. — It is consistent that Lucien 
Buonaparte, who could censure Milton for having sur- 
rounded Satan in the infernal regions with courtly and regal 
splendour, should pronounce the modem Ossian to be the 
glory of Scotland; — a country that has produced a Dunbar, 
a Buchanan, a Thomson, and a Burns ! These opinions are 
of ill omen for the Epic ambition of him who has given 
them to the world. 

Yet, much as those pretended treasures of antiquity have 
been admired, they have been wholly uninfluential upon the 
literature of the Country. No succeeding writer appears to 



918 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 



have caught from them a ray of inspiratioa; no author, : 
the least distinguished, has ventured formally to imitate 
them — except the hoy, Chatterton, on their first appearance. 
He had perceived, from the successful trials which he him- 
self had made in literary forgery, how few critics were able 
to distinguish between a real ancient medal and a counter- 
feit of modem manufacture; and he set himself to the work 
of filling a magazine with Sason Poems, — counterparts of 
those of Ossian, as like his as one of his misty stars is to 
another. This incapability to amalgamate with the literature 
of the Island is, in my estimation, a decisive proof that the 
bock is essentially unnatural ; nor should I require any other 
to demonstrate it to be a forgery, audacious as worthless. — 
Contrast, in this respect, the effect of Macpherson's publica- 
tion with the Reliques of Percy, so unassuming, so modest 
in their pretensions ! — I have already stated how much Ger- 
many is indebted to this latter work ; and for our own coun- 
try, its poetry has been absolutely redeemed by it. I do not 
think that there is an able writer in verse of the present day 
who would not be proud to acknowledge his obligations to 
the Reliques; I know that it is so with my friends; and, for 
myself, I am happy in this occasion to make a public avowal 
of my own. 

Dr. Johnson, more fortunate in his contempt of the labours 
of Macpherson than those of his modest friend, was solicited 
not long after to furnish Prefaces biographical and critical 
for the works of some of the most eminent English Poets. 
The booksellers took upon themselves to make the collec- 
tion; they referred probably to the most popular miscellanies, 
and, unquestionably, to their books of accounts ; and decided 
upon the claim of authors to be admitted into a body of the 
most eminent, from the familiarity of their names with the 
readers of that day, and by the profits, which, from the sale 
of his works, each had brought and was bringing to the 
Trade, The Editor was allowed a limited exercise of dis- 
cretion, and the Authors whom he recommended are 
scarcely to be mentioned without a smile. We open the 
volume of Prefatory Lives, and to our astonishment the 
first name we find is thai of Cowley! — What is become of 
the morning-star of English Poetry? Where is the bright 




SUPPLEMENTARY ESSAY (181»> 



347 



Sizabethan constellation? Or, if names be more ac- 
ceptable than images, where is the ever- to-be -honoured 
Chaucer? where is Spenser? where Sidney? and, lastly, 
where he, whose rights as a poet, contra-distinguished from 
those which he is universally allowed to possess as a drama- 
tist, we have vindicated, — where Shakespeare? — These, and 
a multitude of others not unworthy to be placed near them, 
their contemporaries and successors, we have not. But in 
their stead, we have (could better be expected when prece- 
dence was to be settled by an abstract of reputation at any 
given period made, as in this case before us?) Roscommon, 
and Stepney, and Phillips, and Walsh, and Smith, and Duke, 
and King, and Spratt — Halifax, Granville, Sheffield, Con- 
greve, Broome, and other reputed Magnates — metrical writ- 
ers utterly worthless and useless, except for occasions like 
the present, when their productions are referred to as evi- 
dence what a small quantity of brain is necessary to procure 
a considerable stock of admiration, provided the aspirant 
will accommodate himself to the likings and fashions o£ 
his day. 

As I do not mean to bring down this retrospect to our 
own times, it may with propriety be closed at the era of this 
distinguished event. From the literature of other ages and 
countries, proofs equally cogent might have been adduced, 
that the opinions announced in the former part of this 
Essay are founded upon truth. It was not an agreeable 
ofilce, nor a prudent undertaking, to declare them; but their 
importance seemed to render it a duty. It may still be 
asked, where lies the particular relation of what has been 
said to these Volumes? — The question will be easily 
answered by the discerning Reader who is old enough to 
remember the taste that prevailed when some of these 
poems were first published, seventeen years ago; who has . 
also observed to what degree the poetry of this Island has 
since that period been coloured by tbem; and who is further 
aware of the unremitting hostility with which, upon some 
principle or other, they have each and all been opposed. A 
sketch of my own notion of the constitution of Fame has 
been given; and, as far as concerns myself, I have cause to 
be satisfied. The love, the admiration, the indifference, the 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

slight, the aversion, and even the contempt, with which these 
Poems have been received, knowing, as I do, the source 
within my own mind, from which they have proceeded, and 
the labour and pains, which, when labour and pains ap- 
peared needful, have been bestowed upon them, must all, 
if I think consistently, be received as pledges and tokens, 
bearing the same general impression, though widely dif- 
ferent in value; — they are all proofs that for the present 
lime I have not laboured in vain : and afford assurances, 
more or less authentic, tliat the products of my industry 
will endure. 

If there be one conclusion more forcibly pressed upon 
us than another by the review which has been given of the 
fortunes and fate of poetical Works, it is this — that every 
author, as far as he is great and at the same time original, 
has had the task of creating the taste by which he is to 
be enjoyed ; so has it been, so will it continue to be. This 
remark was long since made to me by the philosophical 
Friend for the separation of whose poems from my own 
I have previously expressed my regret. The predecessors 
of an original Genius of a high order will have smoothed 
the way for all that he has in common with them ; — and 
much he will have in common; but, for what is peculiarly 
his own, he will be called upon to clear and often to shape 
his own road; — he will be in the condition of Hannibal 
among the Alps. 

And where lies the real difficulty of creating that taste 
by which a truly original poet is to be relished? Is it in 
breaking the bonds of custom, in overcoming the prejudices 
of false refinement, and displacing the aversions of in- 
experience? Or, if he labour for an object which here and 
elsewhere I have proposed to myself, does it consist in 
divesting the reader of the pride that induces him to dwell 
upon those points wherein tnen differ from each other, to 
the exclusion of those in which all men are alike, or the 
same; and in making him ashamed of the vanity that ren- 
ders him insensible of the appropriate excellence which 
civil arrangements, less unjust than might appear, and 
Nature illimitable in her bounty, had conferred on men 
who may stand below him io the scale of society? FinaltT-, 





SUPPLEMENTARY ESSAT (19W) 

its it lie in establishing that dominion over the spirits of 
readers by which they are to be humbled and humanized, in 
order that they may be purified and exalted? 

If these ends are to be attained by the mere communi- 
cation of knowledge, it does not lie here. — Taste, I would 
remind the reader, like Imagination, is a word which has 
been forced to extend its services tar beyond the point to 
which philosophy would have confined them. It is a meta- 
phor, taken from a passive sense of the human body, and 
transferred to things which are in their essence not pas- 
sive, — to intellectual acts and operations. The word. Imagi- 
nation, has been overstrained, from impulses honourable 
to mankind, to meet the demands of the faculty which is 
perhaps the noblest of our nature. In the instance of 
Taste, the process has been reversed; and from the preva- 
lence of dispositions at once injurious and discreditable, 
being no other than that selfishness which is the child of 
apathy, — ^which, as Nations decline in productive and creative 
power, makes them value themselves upon a presumed refine- 
ment of judging. Poverty of language is the primary cause 
of the use which we make of the word, Imagination ; but 
the word. Taste, has been stretched to the sense which it 
bears in modem Europe by habits of self-conceit, inducing 
that inversion in the order of things whereby a passive 
faculty is made paramount among the faculties conversant 
with the fine arts. Proportion and congruity, the requisite 
knowledge being supposed, are subjects upon which taste 
may be trusted; it is competent to this office — for in its 
intercourse with these the mind is passive, and is affected 
painfully or pleasurably as by an instinct. But the pro- 
found and the exquisite in feeling, the lofty and universal 
in thought and imagination; or, in ordinary language, the 
pathetic and the sublime; — are neither of them, accurately 
speaking, objects of a faculty which, could ever without a 
sinking in the spirit of Nations have been designated by 
the metaphor Taste. And why? Because without the exer- 
tion of a co-operating power in the mind of the reader, 
there can be no adequate sympathy with either of these 
emotions: without this auxiliary impulse, elevated Of pro- 
found passion cannot exist 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

Passion, it must be observed, is derived from a word 
I which signifies suffering; but the cQanexion which suffering 
has with effort, with exertion, and action, is immediate and 
separable. How strilcingly is this property of human 
.ture exhibited by the fact that, in popular language, to 
in a passion is to be angry 1 But, 



To be moved, then, by a passion is to be excited, often to 
external, and always to internal, effort ; whether for the con- 
tinuance and strengthening of the passion, or for its supres- 
sion, accordingly as the course which it takes may be painful 
or pleasurable. If the latter, the soul must contribute to its 
support, or it never becomes vivid, — and soon langmshes and 
dies. And this brings us to the point. If every great poet 
with whose writings men are familiar, in the highest exer- 
cise of his genius, before he can be thoroughly enjoyed, has 
to call forth and to communicate power, this service, in 
a still greater degree, falls upon an original writer, at his 
first appearance in the world.— -Of genius the only proof is, 
the act of doing well what is worthy to be done, and what 
was never done before; Of genius, in the fine arts, the only 
infallible sign is the widening the sphere of human sen- 
sibility, for the delight, honour, and benefit of human 
nature. Genius is the introduction of a new element into 
the intellectual universe: or, if that be not allowed, it 
is the application of powers to objects on which they had 
not before been exercised, or the employment of them in 
such a manner as to produce effects hitherto unknown. 
What is all this but an advance, or a conquest, made by the 
soul of the poet? Is it to be supposed that the reader can 
make progress of (his kind, like an Indian prince or general 
— stretched on his palanquin, and borne by his slaves? No; 
he is invigorated and inspirited by his leader, in order that 
he may exert himself; for he cannot proceed in quiescence, 
he cannot be carried like a dead weight. Therefore to 
create taste is to call forth and bestow power, of which 
knowledge is the effect; and there lies the true difficulty. 
As the pathetic participates of an animal sensation, it 



SUPPLEMENTARY ESSAY (19W1 Ml 

j;ht seem — ^that, if the springs of this emotion were 
genuine, all men, possessed of competent knowledge of 
the facts and circumstances, would be instantaneously af- 
fected. And, doubtless, in the works of every true poet 
will be found passages of that species of excellence which 
is proved by effects immediate and universal. But there 
are emotions of the pathetic that are simple and direct, and 
others — that are complex and revolutionary; some — to 
which the heart yields with gentleness; others — against 
which it struggles with pride; these varieties are infinite 
as the combinations of circumstance and the constitutions 
of character. Remember, also, that the medium through 
which, in poetry, the heart is to be affjcted, is language; 
a thing subject to endless fluctuations and arbitrary asso- 
ciations. The genius of the poet melts these down for his 
purpose; but they retain their shape and quality to him 
who is not capable of exerting, within his own mind, a cor- 
responding energy. There is also a meditative, as well as a 
human, pathos; an enthusiastic, as well as an ordinary, 
sorrow ; a sadness that has its seat in the depths of reason, 
to which the mind cannot sink gently of itself — but to which 
it must descend by treading the steps of thought And 
for the sublime, — if we consider what are the cares that 
occupy the passing day, and how remote is the practice and 
the course of life from the sources of sublimity, in the 
soul of Man, can it be wondered that there is little existing 
preparation for a poet charged with a new mission to ex- 
tend its kingdom, and to augment and spread its enjoy- 
ments ? 

Away, then, with the senseless iteration of the word 
popular, applied to new works in poetry, as if there were 
no test of excellence in this first of the fine arts but that 
all men should run after its productions, as if urged by an 
appetite, or constrained by a spell! — ^The qualities of writ- 
ing best fitted for eager reception are either such as startle 
the world into attention by their audacity and extravagance; 
or they are chiefly of a superficial kind, lying upon the 
surfaces of manners; or arising out of a selection and ar- 
rangement of incidents, by which the mind is kept upon 
the stretch of curiosity, and the fancy amused without the 



trouble of thought. But in everything which is to send tlie 
soul into herself, to be admonished of her weakness, or to 
be made conscious of her power; — wherever life and nature 
are described as operated upon by the creative or abstract- 
ing virtue of the imagination; wherever the instinctive 
wisdom of antiquity and her heroic passions uniting, in 
the heart of the poet, with the meditative wisdom of later 
ages, have produced that accord of sublimated humanity 
which is at once a history of the remote past and a pro- 
phetic enunciation of the remotest future, there, the poet 
must reconcile himself for a season to few and scattered 
hearers. — Grand thoughts (and Shakespeare must often 
have sighed over this truth), as they are most naturally and 
most fitly conceived in solitude, so can ihey not be brought 
forth in the midst of plaudits without some violation of 
their sanctity. Go to a silent exhibition of the productions 
of the sister Art, and be convinced that the qualities which 
dazzle at first sight, and kindle the admiration of flie 
multitude, are essentially different from those by which per- 
manent influence is secured. Let us not shrink from follow- 
ing up these principles as far as they will carry us, and 
conclude with observing — that there never has been a 
period, and perhaps never will be, in which vicious poetry, 
of some kind or other, has not excited more zealous admira- 
tion, and been far more generally read, than good; but this 
advantage attends the good, that the indwidual, as well as 
the species, survives from age to age; whereas, of the de- 
praved, though the species be immortal, the individual 
quickly perishes; the object of present admiration vanishes, 
being supplanted by some other as easily produced; which, 
though no better, brings with it at least the irritation of 
novelty, — with adaptation, more or less skilful, to the chang- 
ing humours of the majorir/ of those who are most at 
leisure to regard poetical works when they first solicit their 
attention. 

Is it the result of the who!?, 
Writer, the judgement of the Pi 
The thought is most injurious 
brought against him, he world 



:'iat, in the opinion of the 
?ile is not to be respected? 
and, could the charge be 
repel it with indignatit 



The People have already been justified, and their eulogium 



w 



SUPPLEMENTARY ESSAY (1816) 353 

pronounced by implication, when it was said, above — that, 
of good poetry, the individual, as well as the species, sur- 
vives. And how does it survive but through the People? 
What preserves it but their intellect and their wisdom? 



Past and future, are the wings 

On whose support, harmoniously conjojced, 

Uoves the great Spirit of human knowledge 

MS. 



The voice that issues from this Spirit is that Vox Populi 
which the Deity inspires. Foolish must he be who can 
mistake for this a local acclamation, or a transitory out- 
cry — transitory though it be for years, local though from 
a Nation. Still more lamentable is his error who can 
believe that there is anything of divine infallibility in the 
clamour of that small though loud portion of the community, 
ever governed by factitious influence, which, under the 
name of the Public, passes itself, upon the unthinking, for 
the People. Towards the Public, the Writer hopes that 
he feels as much deference as it is entitled to: but to the 
People, philosophically characterized, and to the embodied 
spirit of their knowledge, so far as it exists and moves, at 
the present, faithfully supported by its two wings, the 
past and the future, his devout respect, hts reverence, is 
due. He offers it willingly and readily; and, this done, 
takes leave of his Readers, by assuring them — that, if he 
were not persuaded that the contents of these Volumes, 
and the Work to which they are subsidiary, evince some- 
thing of the ' Vision and the Faculty divine ' ; and that, both 
in words and things, they will operate in their degree, to 
extend the domain of sensibility for the delight, the honour, 
and the benefit of human nature, nothwith standing the many 
happy hours which he has employed in their composition, 
and the manifold comforts and enjoyments they have pro- 
cured to him, he would not, if a wish could do it, save 
them from immediate destruction ; — from becoming at this 
lent, to the world, as a thing that had never been. 




PREFACE TO CROMWELL 

BY VICTOR HUGO. 

THE drama contained in the following pages has noth- 
ing to commend it to the attention or the good will 
of the public* It has not, to attract the interest ol 
political disputants, the advantage of the veto of the official 
censorship, nor even, to win for it at the outset the literary 
sympathy of men of taste, the honour of having been form- 
ally rejected by an infallible reading committee. 

It presents itself, therefore, to the public gaze, naked and 
friendless, like the infirm man of the Gospel — solus, pauper, 
nudus. - •<■' 

Not without some hesitation, moreover, did the authof 
determine to burden his drama with a preface. Such things 
arc usually of very little interest to the reader. He inquires 
concerning the talent of a writer rather than concerning Ids 
point of view ; and in determining whether a work is good or 
bad, it matters little to him upon what ideas it is based, or in 
what sort of mind it germinated. One seldom inspects the, 
cellars of a house after visiting its salons, and when 
eats the fruit of a tree, one cares but little about its root. 

On the other hand, notes and prefaces are sometimes a 
convenient method of adding to the weight of a book, and 
of magnifying, in appearance at least, the importance of S 
work ; as a matter of tactics this is not dissimilar to that of' 
the general who, to make his battle-front more imposing, 
puts everything, even his baggage-trains, in the line. And 
then, while critics fall foul of the preface and scholars oi 
the notes, it may happen that the work itself will escape 
them, passing uninjured between their cross-fires, as an am^' 
extricates itself from a dangerous position between two 
skirmishes of outposts and rear -guards. 



(iBoa-iSSj) t 



d ^e lilenrf wotid 



rld'i^'^tiu ti 



TO CROMWEIX 3SS 

' These reasons, weighty as they may seem, are not those 
Which influenced the author. This volume did not need to 
be inHaled, it was already too stout by far. Furthermore, 
and the author does not know why it is so, his prefaces, 
frank and ingenuous as they are, have always served rather 
to compromise him with the critics than to shield him. Far 
from being staunch and trusty bucklers, they have played 
him a trick like that played in a battle by an unusual and 
conspicuous uniform, which, calling attention to the soldier 
who wears it, attracts all the blows and is proof against 
none. 

Considerations of an altogether different sort acted upon 
the author. It seemed to him that, alihough in fact, one sel- 
dom inspects the cellars of a building for pleasure, one is 
not sorry sometimes to examine its foundations. He will, 
therefore, give himself over once more, with a preface, to 
the wrath of the feuillelonists. Che sara, sara. He has 
never given much thought to the fortune of his works, and 
he is but little appalled by dread of the literary what will 
people say. In the discussion now raging, in which the 
theatre and the schools, the public and the academies, are 
at daggers drawn, one will hear, perhaps, not without some 
interest, the voice of a solitary apprentice of nature and 
truth, who has withdrawn betimes from the literary world, 
for pure love of letters, and who offers good faith iii default 
of good taste, sincere conviction in default of talent, study 
in default of learning. 

He will conhne himself, however, to general considerations 
concerning the art, without the slightest attempt to smooth 
the path of his own work, without pretending to write an 
indictment or a plea, against or for any person whomsoever. 
An attack upon or defence of his book is of less importance 
to him than to anybody else. Nor is personal controversy 
agreeable to him. It is always a pitiful spectacle to see two 
hostile self-esteems crossing swords. He protests, therefore, 
beforehand against every interpretation of his ideas, every 
personal application of his words, saying with the Spanish 
ifrblist;— 



156 VICTOR HUGO 

In truth, several of the leading champions of "sound 
literary doctrines" have done him the honour to throw 
the gauntlet to him, even in his profound obscurity — 
to him, a simple, imperceptible spectator of this curious 
contest. He will not have the presumption to pick it up. 
In the following pages will be found the observations 
with which he might oppose them — there will be found 
his sling and his stone; but others, if they choose, may 
hurl them at the head of the classical Goliaths, 

This said, let us pass on. 
J, Let us set out from a fact. The same type of civiliza- 
tion, or to use a more exact, although more extended ex- 
pression, the same society, has not always inhabited the 
earth. The human race as a whole has grown, has de- 
veloped, has matured, like one of ourselves. It was once 
a child, it was once a man ; we are now looking on at 
its impressive old age. Before the epoch which modern 
society has dubbed "ancient," there was another epoch 
which the ancients called " fabulous," but which it would 
be more accurate to call " primitive." Behold then three 
great successive orders of things in civilization, from its 
origin down to our days. Now, as poetry is always super- 
posed upon society, we propose to try to demonstrate, 
from the form o£ its society, what the character of the 
poetry must have been in those three great ages of the 
world — primitive times, ancient times, modem times. 

In primitive times, when man awakes in a world that 
is newly created, poetry awakes with hira. In the face 
of the marvellous things that dazzle and intoxicate him, 
his first speech is a hymn simply. He is stilt so close to 
God that all his meditations are ecstatic, all his dreams 
are visions. His bosom swells, he sings as he breathes. 
His lyre has but three strings — God, the soul, creation; 
but this threefold mystery envelopes everything, this three- 
fold idea embraces everything. The earth is still almost 
deserted. There are families, but no nations ; patriarchs, 
but no kings. Each race exists at its own pleasure; no 
property, no laws, no contentions, no wars. Everything 
belongs to each and to all. Society is a community. Man 
is restrained in nought He leads that nomadic pastoral 



TO CROMWELL 3S7 

life with which all civilizations begin, and which is so well 
adapted to solitary contemplation, to fanciful reverie. He 
follows every suggestion, he goes hither and thither, at 
random. His thought, like his life, resembles a cloud that 
changes its shape and its direction according to the wind 
that drives it. Such is the first man, such is the first 
poet. He is young, he is cynical. Prayer is his sole re- 
ligion, the ode is his only form of poetry. 

This ode, this poem of primitive times, is Genesis. 

By slow degrees, however, this youth of the world passes 
away. All the spheres progress; the family becomes a 
tribe, the tribe becomes a nation. Each of these groups 
of men camps about a common centre, and kingdoms ap- 
pear. The social instinct succeeds the nomadic instinct. 
The camp gives place to the city, the tent to the palace, 
the ark to the temple. The chiefs of these nascent states 
are still shepherds, it is true, but shepherds of nations ; 
the pastoral staff has already assumed the shape of a 
sceptre. Everything tends to become stationary and fixed. 
Religion takes on a definite shape ; prayer is governed by 
rites ; dogma sets bounds to worship. Thus the priest 
and king share the paternity of the people; thus theocratic 
society succeeds the patriarchal community. 

Meanwhile the nations are beginning to be packed too 
closely on the earth's surface. They annoy and jostte one 
another; hence the clash of empires — war. They over- 
flow upon another ; hence, the migrations of nations — 
voyages. Poetry reflects these momentous events; from 
ideas it proceeds to things. It sings of ages, of nations, 
of empires. It becomes epic, it gives birth to Homer, 

Homer, in truth, dominates the society of ancient times. 
In that society, all is simple, all is epic. Poetry ts re- 
ligion, religion is law. The virginity of the earlier age 
is succeeded by the chastity of the later. A sort of sol- 
emn gravity is everywhere noticeable, in private manners 
no less than in public. The nations have retained nothing 
of the wandering hfe of the earlier time, save respect for 
the stranger and the traveller. The family has a father- 
land; everything is connected therewith; it has the cult 
— of the house and the cult of the tomb. 



358 VICTOR HUGO 

We say again, such a civiliiation can find its one ex- 
pression only in the epic. The epic will assume diverse 
forms, but will never lose its specific character. Pindar 
is more priestlike than patriarchal, more epic than lyricaL 
If the chroniclers, the necessary accompanitneDts of this 
second age of the world, set about collecting traditions 
and begin to reckon by centuries, they labour to no purpose 
— chronology cannot expel poesy; history remains an epic 
Herodotus is a Homer. 

But it is in the ancient tragedy, above all, that the 
epic breaks out at every turn. It mounts the Greek stage 
without losing aught, so to speak, of its immeasurable* 
gigantic proportions. Its characters are still heroes, demi- 
gods, gods; its themes are visions, oracles, fatality; its 
scenes are battles, funeral rites, catalogues. That which 
the rhapsodists formerly sang, the actors declaim — that 
is the whole difference. 

There is something more. When the whole plot, the 
whole spectacle of the epic poem have passed to the stage, 
the Chorus takes all that remains. The Chorus annotates 
the tragedy, encourages the heroes, gives descriptions, 
summons and expels the daylight, rejoices, laments, some- 
times furnishes the scenery, explains the moral bearing 
of the subject, flatters the listening assemblage. Now, what 
is the Chorus, this anomalous character standing between 
the spectacle and the spectator, if it be not the poet com- 
pleting his epic? 

The theatre of the ancients is, like their dramas, huge, 
ponti5cal, epic. It is capable of holding thirty thousand 
spectators ; the plays arc given in the open air, in bright 
sunlight; the performances last all day. The actors dis- 
guise their voices, wear masks, increase their stature; they 
make themselves gigantic, like their roles. The stage ia 
immense. It may represent at the same moment botli thej 
interior and the exterior of a temple, a palace, a camp, a' 
city. Upon it, vast spectacles are displayed. There !■ < 
— ^we cite only from memory — Prometheus on his moun- 
tain; there is Antigone, at the lop of a tower, seeking 
her brother Polynices in the hostile army (The Phtxn^ 
citmt); there is Evadne hurling herself from a cli£E into 



TO GROMWZLL 390 

the flames where the body of Capaneus is burning (The 
Suppliants of Euripides) ; there is a ship sailing into port 
and landing fifty princesses with their retinues (The Sttp- 
pliants of ^schylus). Architecture, poetry, everything as- 
sumes a monumental character. In all antiquity there is noth- 
ing more solemn, more majestic. Its history and its religion 
are mingled on its stage. Its first actors are priests; its scenic 
performances are religious ceremonies, national festivals. 

One last observation, which completes our demonstra. 
tion of the epic character of this epoch: in the subjects 
which it treats, no less than in the forms it adopts, 
tragedy simply re-echoes the epic. All the ancient tragic 
authors derive their plots from Homer. The same fabulous 
exploits, the same catastrophes, the same heroes. One and 
all drink from the Homeric stream. The Iliad and Odyssey 
are always in evidence. Like Achilles dragging Hector at 
his chariot- wheel, the Greek tragedy circles about Troy, 

But the age of the epic draws near its end. Like the 
society that it represents, this form of poetry wears itself 
out revolving upon itself. Rome reproduces Greece, Virgil 
copies Homer, and, as if to make a becoming end, epic 
poetry expires in the last parturition. 

It was time. Another era is about to begin, for the 
world and for poetry, 

A spiritual religion, supplanting the materia! and ex- 
ternal paganisn^ makes its way to the heart of the an- 
cient society, kills it, and deposits, in that corpse of a 
decrepit civilization, the germ of modern civilization. Thia 
religion is complete, because it is true; between its dogma 
and its cult, it embraces a deep-rooted moral. And first 
of all, as a fundamental truth, it teaches man that he 
has two lives to live, one ephemeral, the other immortal; 
one on earth, the other in heaven. It shows him that 
he, like his destiny, is twofold: that there is in him an 
animal and an intellect, a body and a soul; in a word, 
that he is the point of intersection, the common link of 
the two chains of 'bsings which embrace all creation — 
of tht' 'chain of m»t<wial beings and the chain of in- 
corporeal beings; the first starting from the rock to arrive 
t man, the second starting from man to end at God. 



MO VICTOR HUGO 

A portion of these truths had perhaps been suspected 
by certain wise men of ancient times, but their full, broad, 
luminous revelation dates from the Gospels, The pagan 
schools walked in darkness, feeling their way, clinging to 
falsehoods as well as to truths in their haphazard jour- 
neying. Some of their philosophers occasionally cast upon 
certain subjects feeble gleams which illuminated but one 
side and made the darkness of the other side more profound. 
Hence all the phantoms created by ancient philosophy. 
None but divine wisdom was capable of substituting 
even and all-embracing light for all those 8ickeririg rays 
of human wisdom. Pythagoras, Epicurus, Socrates, Flato, 
are torches: Christ is the glorious light of day. 

Nothing could be more material, indeed, than the ancient 
theogony. Far from proposing, as Christianity does, to 
separate the spirit from the body, it ascribes form and 
features to everything, even to impalpable essences, even 
to the intelligence. In it everything is visible, tangible, 
fleshly. Its gods need a cloud to conceal themselves from 
men's eyes. They eat, drink, and sleep. They are wounded 
and their blood flows; they are maimed, and lo! they limp 
forever after. That religion has gods and halves of gods. 
Its thunderbolts are forged on an anvil, and among other 
things three rays of twisted rain (tres imbris torii radios') 
enter into their composition. Its Jupiter suspends the 
world by a golden chain ; its sun rides in a four-horse 
chariot: its hell is a precipice the brink of which is marked 
on the globe; its heaven is a mountain. 

Thus paganism, which moulded all creations from the 
same clay, minimizes divinity and magnifies man. Homei 
heroes are of almost the same stature as his gods. Ajax 
defies Jupiter, Achilles is the peer of Mars. Christianity 
on the contrary, as we have seen, draws a broad line of 
division between spirit and matter. It places an abyss 
between the soul and the body, an abyss between man and 
God. 

At this point — to omit nothing from the sketch upon 
which we have ventured — we will call attention to the 
fact that, with Christianity, and by its means, there en- 
tered into the mind of the nations a new seatimeatj im- 



TO CROMWELL 



361 



known to the ancients and marvellously developed among 
moderns, a sentiment which is more than gravity and less 
than sadness — melancholy. In truth, might not the heart 
of man, hitherto deadened by religions purely hierarchical 
and sacerdotal, awake and fee! springing to life within 
it some unexpected faculty, under the breath of a religion 
that is human because it is divine, a religion which makes 
of the poor man's prayer, the rich man's wealth, a religion 
of equality, liberty and charity? Might it not see all things 
in 3 new light, since the Gospel had shown it the soul 
through the senses, eternity behind life? 

Moreover, at Ihat very moment the world was under- 
' going so complete a revolution that it was impossible that 
there should not be a revolution in men's minds. Hitherto 
the catastrophes of empires had rarely reached the hearts 
of the people; it was kings who fell, majesties that vanished, 
nothing more. The lightning struck only in the upper 
regions, and, as we have already pointed out, events seemed 
to succeed one another with all the solemnity of the epic. 
In the ancient society, the individual occupied so lowly 
a place that, to strike him, adversity must needs descend to 
his family. So that he knew little of misfortune outside of 
domestic sorrows. It was an almost unheard-of thing that 
the general disasters of the stale should disarrange his life. 
But the instant that Christian society became firmly estab- 
lished, the ancient continent was thrown into confusion. 
Everything was pulled up by the roots. Events, destined to 
destroy ancient Europe and to construct a new Europe, 
trod upon one another's heels in their ceaseless rush, and 
drove the nations pell-mell, some into the light, others 
into darkness. So much uproar ensued that it was im- 
possible that some echoes of it should not reach the hearts 
of the people. It was more than an echo, it was a reflex 
blow. Man, wifhdrawing within himself in presence of 
these imposing vicissitudes, began to take pity upon man- 
kind, to reflect upon the bitter disillusion men ts of life. 
Of this sentiment, which to Cato the heathen was despair, 
Christianity fashioned melancholy. 

At the same time was born the spirit of scrutiny and 
curiosity. These great cataAtro^bes were also great spec* 



VICTOR HtJGO 

tacles, impressive cataclysms. It was the North hurling 
itself upon the South; the Roman world changing shape; 
the last convulsive throes of a whole universe in the 
death agony. As soon as that world was dead, lot clouds 
of rhetoricians, grammarians, sophists, swooped down like 
insects on its immense body. People saw them swarming 
and heard them buzzing in that seat of putrefaction. They 
vied with one another in scrutinizing, commenting, dis- 
puting. Each limb, each muscle, each Sbrc of the huge 
prostrate body was twisted and turned in every direction. 
Surely it must have been a keen satisfaction to those 
anatomists of the mind, to be able, at their debut, to make 
experiments on a large scale; to have a dead society to 
dissect, for their first "subject." 

Thus we see melancholy and meditation, the demons 
of analysis and controversy, appear at the same moment, 
and, as it were, hand-in-hand. At one extremity of this 
era of transition is Longinus, at the other St Augustine, 
We must beware of casting a disdainful eye upon that 
epoch wherein all that has since borne fruit was con- 
tained in germs; upon that epoch whose least eminent 
writers, if we may be pardoned a vulgar but expressive 
phrase, made fertilizer for the harvest that was to fol- 
low. The Middle Ages were grafted on the Lower Empire. 

Behold, then, a new religion, a new society; upon this 
twofold foundation there must inevitably spring up a 
new poetry. Previously — we beg pardon for setting forth 
a result which the reader has probably already foreseen 
from what has been said above — previously, following 
therein the course pursued by the ancient polytheism and 
philosophy, the purely epic muse of the ancients had studied 
nature in only a single aspect, casting aside without 
pity almost everything in art which, in the world 
subjected to its imitation, had not relation to a certain 
type of beauty. A type which vras magnificent at first, 
but, as always happens with everything systematic, became 
in later times false, trivial and conventional. Christianity 
leads poetry to the truth. Like it, the modern muse will 
see things in a higher and broader light. It will realize 
that everything in creation is not humanly btcmtiftd, that 



TO CROMWELL SBS 

the ugl; exists beside the beautiful, the unshapely beside 
the graceful, the grotesque on the reverse of tfie sublime, 
evil with good, darkness with light. It will ask itself if 
the narrow and relative sense of the artist should prevail 
over the infinite, absolute sense of the Creator; if it is for 
man to correct God; if a mutilated nature will be the 
more beautiful for the mutilation; if art has the right 
to duplicate, so to speak, man, life, creation; if things 
will progress better when their muscles and their vigour 
have been taken from them; if, in short, to be incomplete 
is the best way to be harmonious. Then it is that, with 
its eyes fixed upon events that are both laughable and 
redoubtable, and under the influence of that spirit of 
Christian melancholy and philosophical criticism which we 
described a moment ago, poetry will take a great step! 
a decisive step, a step which, like the upheaval of an earthj 
quake, will change the whole face of the intellectual world 
It will set about doing as nature does, mingling in its crea- 
tions — but without confounding them — darkness and light, 
the grotesque and the sublime; in other words, the body 
and the soul, the beast and the intellect; for the starting- 
point of religion is always the starting-point of poetry. All 
things are connected. 

Thus, then, we see a principle unknown to the ancients, 
a new type, introduced in poetry; and as an additional 
element in anything modifies the whole of the thing, a new 
form of the art is developed. This type is the grotesque; 
its new form is comedy. 

And we beg leave to dwell upon this point; for we have 
now indicated the significant feature, the fundamental dif- 
ference which, in our opinion, separates modern from an- 
cient art, the present form from the defunct form; or, 
to use less definite but more popular terms, romantic htera- 
ture from classical literature, 

" At last ! " exclaim the people who for some time past 
have seen what we were coming al, " at last we have you — 
you are caught in the act. So then you put forward the 
agly as a type for imitation, you make the grotesque an 
element of art. But the graces ; but good taste 1 Don't 
you luiow that art should correct nature? that we nuut 




VICTOR HUGO 

ennoble art? that we must seltcif Did the ancieots ever 
exhibit the ugly or the grotesque? Did they ever mingle 
comedy and tragedy ? The example of the ancients, gen- 
tlemen I And Aristotle, too ; and Boiteau ; and La Harpe. 
Upon my word ! " 

These arguments are sound, doubtless, and, above all, of 
extraordinary novelty. But it is not our place to reply 
to them. We are constructing no system here — God protect 
us from systems ! We are stating a (act. We are a his- 
torian, not a critic. Whether the fact is agreeable or not 
matters little; it is a fact. Let us resume, therefore, and 
toy to prove that it is of the fruitful union of the grotesque 
And the sublime types that modem genius is bom — so com- 
plex, so diverse in its forms, so inexhaustible in its creations; 
and therein directly opposed to the uniform simplicity of the 
genius of the ancients; let us show that that is the point 
from which we must set out to establish the real and radical 
difference between the two forms of literature. 

Not that it is strictly true that comedy and the gro- 
tesque were entirely unknown to the ancients. In fact, 
such a thing would be impossible. Nothing grows without 
a root; the germ of the second epoch always exists in the 
first- In the Iliad Thersites and Vulcan furnish comedy, 
one to the mortals, the other to tlie gods. There is too 
much nature and originality in the Greek tragedy for there 
not to be an occasional touch of comedy in it. For ex- 
ample, to cite only what we happen to recall, the scene 
between Menelaus and the portress of the palace, (Helen, 
Act I), and the scene of the Phrygian {Orestes, Act IV). 
The Tritons, the Satyrs, the Cyclops are grotesque; Poly- 
phemus is a terrifying, Silenus a farcical grotesque. 

But one feels that this part of the art is still in its in- 
fancy. The epic, which at this period imposes its form 
on everything, the epic weighs heavily upon it and stifles 
it. The ancient grotesque is timid and forever trying to 
keep out of sight. It is plain that it is not on familiar 
ground, because it is not in its natural surroundings. It 
conceals itself as much as it can. The Satyrs, the Tritoms, 
and the Sirens are hardly abnormal in form. The Fates 
and the Harpies are hideous in their attributes rather 



than in feature; the Furies are beautiful, and are called 
Eutnenides, that is to say, gentle, beneficent. There is a 
veil of grandeur or of divinity over other grotesques. 
Polyphemus is a giant, Midas a king, Silenus a god. 

Thus comedy is almost imperceptible in the great epic 
ensemble of ancient times. What is the barrow of Thespis 
beside the Olympian chariots? What are Aristophanes and 
Plautus, beside the Homeric colossi, yEschylus, Sophocles, 
Euripides? Homer bears them along with him, as Hercules 
bore the pygmies, hidden in his lion's skin ! 

In the idea of men of modern times, however, the gro- 
tesque plays an enormous part. It is found everywhere; 
on the one hand it creates the abnormal and the horrible, 
on the other the comic and the burlesque. It fastens upon 
religion a thousand original superstitions, upon poetry a 
thousand picturesque fancies. It is the grotesque which 
scatters lavishly, in air, water, earth, fire, those myriads 
of intermediary creatures which we find all alive in the 
popular traditions of the Middle Ages; it is the grotesque 
which impels the ghastly antics of the witches' revels, 
which gives Satan his horns, his cloven foot and his bat's 
wings. It is the grotesque, still the grotesque, which now 
casts into the Christian hell the frightful faces which the 
severe genius of Dante and Milton will evoke, and again 
peoples it with those laughter-moving figures amid which 
Callot, the burlesque Michelangelo, will disport himself. If 
it passes from ihe world of imagination to the real world, it 
unfolds an inexhaustible supply of parodies of mankind. 
Creations of its fantasy are the Scaramouches, Crispins and 
Harlequins, grinning silhouettes of man, types altogether 
unknown to serious- minded antiquity, although they origi- 
nated in classic Italy. It is the grotesque, lastly, which, 
colouring the same drama with the fancies of the North and 
of the South in turn, exhibits Sganarelle capering about Don. 
Juan and Mephistopheles crawling about Faust 

And how free and open it is in its bearing I how boldly 
it brings into relief all the strange forms which the pre- 
ceding age had timidly wrapped in swaddling-clothes I 
Ancient poetry, compelled to provide the lame Vulcan with 
companions, tried to disguise tiieir deformity by distributing 



VICTOR nroo 

it, so to speak, upon gigantic proportions. Modern genms re- 
tains this myth of the supernatural smiths, but gives it an 
entirely different character and one which makes it e^'eo 
more striking; it changes the giants to dwarfs aad makes 
gnomes of the Cyclops. With like originality, it nibstitutes 
for the somewhat commonplace Leriuean hydra all the local 
dragons of our nationel legends — the gargoyle of Rouen, the 
gra-ouilli of Metz, the chair salUe of Troyes, the drie of 
Montihery, the tarasque of Tarascon — monsters of forms so 
diverse, whose outlandish names are an additional attribute. 
All these creations draw from their own nature that ener- 
getic and significant expression before which antiquity seems 
aometimes to have recoiled. Certain it is that the Greek 
Eumenides are much less horrible, and consequently less 
true, than the witches in Macbeth. Pluto is not the deviL 

In our opinion a most novel book might be written upoti 
the employment of the grotesque in the arts. One might 
point out the powerful effects the moderns have obtained 
from that fruitful type, upon which narrow-minded criticism 
continues to wage war even in our own day. It may be 
that we shall be led by our subject to call attention in passing 
to some features of this vast picture. We will simply say 
here that, as a means of contrast with the sublime, the 
grotesque is, in our view, the richest source that nature can 
offer art Rubens so understood it, doubtless, when it 
pleased him to introduce the hideous features of a court 
dwarf amid his exhibitions of royal magnificence, coronations 
and splendid ceremonial. The universal beauty which the 
ancients solemnly laid upon everything, is not without 
monotony; the same impression repeated again and again 
may prove fatiguing at last. Sublime upon sublime scarcely 
presents a contrast, and we need a little rest from every- 
thing, even the beautiful. On the other hand, the grotesque 
seems to be a halting- pi ace, a mean term, a starting-point 
whence one rises toward the beautiful with a fresher and 
keener perception. The salamander gives relief to the 
water- sprite ; the gnome heightens the charm of the sylph. 

And it would be true also to say that contact with the 
abnormal has imparted to the modem sublime a something 
purer, grander, more sublime, in short, than the beautiful of 



TO CEOMWELL 

the ancients; and that is as it should be. When art is con- 
sistent with itself, it guides everything more surely to its 
goal. If the Homeric Elysium is a long, long way from the 
ethereal charm, the angelic pleasures.bleness of Milton's Par- 
adise, it is because under Eden there Js a hell far more ter- 
rible than the heathen Tartarus. Do you think that Francesca 
da Rimini and Beatrice would be so enchanting in a poet 
who should not confine us in the Tower ot' Hunger and com- 
pel us to share Ugolino's revolting repast? Dante would 
have les; charm, if he had less power. Have the fleshly 
naiads, the musctUar Tritons, the wanton Zephyrs, the 
diaphanous transparency of our water-sprites and sylphs? Is 
it not because the modem imagination does not fear to 
picture the ghastly forms of vampires, ogres, ghouls, snake- 
charmers and jinns prowling about graveyards, that it can 
give to its fairies that incorporeal shape, that purity of 
essence, of which the heathen nymphs fall so far short? The 
antique Venus is beautiful, admirable, no doubt ; but what has 
imparted to Jean Goujon's faces that weird, tender, ethereal 
delicacy ? What has given them that unfamiliar suggestion 
of life and grandeur, if not the proximity of the rough and 
powerful sculptures of the Middle Ages? 

If the thread of our argument has not been broken in the 
reader's mind by these necessary digressions — which in truth, 
might be developed much further— he has realized, doubtless, 
how powerfully the grotesque — that germ of comedy, fostered 
by the modern muse — grew in extent and importance as soon 
as it was transplanted to a soil more propitious than pagan- 
ism and the Epic. In truth, in the new poetry, while the 
Gublime represents the soul as it is, purified by Christian 
morality, the grotesque plays the part of the human beasL 
The former type, delivered of all impure alloy, has as its 
attributes all the charms, all the graces, all the heauties; it 
must be able some day to create Juliet, Desdemona, Ophelia. 
The latter assumes all the absurdities, all the infirmities, all 
the blemishes. In this partition of mankind and of creation, 
to it fall the passions, vices, crimes; it is sensuous, fawning, 
greedy, miserly, false, incoherent, hypocritical ; it is, in turn, 
lago, Tartuffe, Basile, Polcnius, Harpagon, Bartholo, Falstaflt, 
Scapin, Figaro. The beautiful has but one type, the uglj; 



VICTOR HUGO 

has a thousand. The fact is that the beautiful, htmahly 
Epeaking, is merely form considered in its simplest aspect, in 
its most perfect symmetry, in its most entire harmony with 
our make-up. Thus the ensemble that it offers us is always 
complete, but restricted Hkc ourselves. What we call the 
ugly, on the contrary, is a detail of a great whole which 
eludes us, and which is in harmony, not with man but with 
all creation. That is why jt constantly presents itself to 
us in new but incomplete aspects. 

It is interesting to study the first appearance and the 
progress of the grotesque in modern times. At first, it is 
an invasion, an irruption, an overflow, as of a torrent that 
has burst its banks. It rushes through the expiring Latin 
literature, imparts some coloring to Persius, Petronius and 
Juvenal, and leaves behind it the Golden Ass of Apuleius. 
Thence it diffuses itself through the imaginations of the 
new nations that are remodelling Europe. It abounds in 
the work of the fabulists, the chroniclers, the romancists. 
We see it make its way from the South to the North. It 
disports itself in the dreams of the Teutonic nations, and at 
the same time vivifies with its breath the admirable Spanish 
romanceros, a veritable Iliad of the age of chivalry. For 
example, it is the grotesque which describes thus, in the 
Roman de la Rose, an august ceremonial, the election of a 



More especially it imposes its characteristic qualities upon 
that wonderful architecture which, in the Middle Ages, 
takes the place of all the arts. It atSxes its mark on the 
facades of cathedrals, frames its hells and purgatories in 
the ogive arches of great doorways, portrays them in brilliant 
hues on window-glass, exhibits its monsters, its bull-dogs, its 
imps about capitals, along friezes, on the edges of roofs. 
It flaunts itself in numberless shapes on the wooden facades 
of houses, on the stone facades of chateaux, on the marble 
faqides of palaces. From the arts it makes its way into the 
national manners, and while it stirs applause from the people 
for the graciosos of comedy, it gives to the kings court-jest- 
ers, i-afer, in the age of etiquette, it will show us Scarron on 



TO CROMWELL 369 

e v«y edge of Louis the Fourteenth's bed. Meanwhile, it 
decorates coats-of-arms, and draws upon knights' shields the 
symbolic hieroglyphs of feudalism, From the manners, it 
makes its way into the laws ; numberless strange customs at- 
test its passage through the institutions of the Middle Ages, 
Just as it represented Thespis, smeared with wine-lees, leap- 
ing in her tomb, it dances with the Basoche on the famous 
marble table which served at the same time as a stage for 
the popular farces and for the royal banquets. Finally, 
having made its way into the arts, the manners, and the laws, 
it enters even the Church. In every Catholic city we see it 
organizing some one of those curious ceremonies, those 
strange processions, wherein religion is attended by 211 
varieties of superstition — the sublime attended by all the 
forms of the grotesque. To paint it in one stroke, so great 
is its vigour, its energy, its creative sap, at the dawn of 
letters, that it casts, at the outset, upon the threshold of 
modem poetry, three burlesque Homers: Ariosto in Italy, 
Cervantes in Spain, Rabelais in France. 

It would be mere surplusage to dwell further upon the 
influence of the grotesque in the third civilization. Every- 
thing tends to show its dose creative alliance with the 
beautiful in the so-called "romantic" period. Even among 
the simplest popular legends there are none which do not 
somewhere, witii an admirable instinct, solve this mystery 
of modern art Antiquity could not have produced Beauty 
and the Beast, 

It is true that at the period at which we have arrived 
the predominance of the grotesque over the sublime in lit- 
erature is clearly indicated. But it is a spasm of reaction, 
an eager thirst for novelty, which is but temporary; it is 
an initial wave which gradually recedes. The type of the 
beautiful will soon resume its rights and its role, which is 
not to exclude the other principle, but to prevail over iL 
It is time that the grotesque should be content with a corner 
of the picture in Murillo's royal frescoes, in the sacred 
pages of Veronese; content to be introduced in two mar- 
vellous Last Judgments, in which art will take a just pride, 
in the scene of fascination and horror with which Michel- 
angelo will embellish the Vatican; in those awe-inspiring rep- 



VICTOR HUOO 1 

resentations of the fall of man which Rubens will du-ow 
npon the arches of the Cathedral of Antwerp. The time 
has come when the balance between the two principfes is to 
be established. A man, a poet-king, poeta soverano, as Dante 
calls Homer, is about to adjust everything. The cwo rival 
genii combine their flames, and thence issues Shakespeare. 

We have now reached the poetic culmination of modem 
times. Shakespeare is the drama ; and the drama, which 
with the same breath moulds the grotesque and the sublime, 
the terrible and the absurd, tragedy and comedy — the drama 
is the distinguishing characteristic of the third epoch of 
poetry, of the literature of the present day. 

Thus, to sum up hurriedly the facts that we have noted 
thus far, poetry has three periods, each of which corresponds 
to an epoch of civilization: the ode, the epic, and the drama. 
Primitive times are lyrical, ancient times epical, modem 
, times dramatic. The ode sings of eternity, the epic impatts 
. solemnity to history, the drama depicts life. The character- 
istic of the first poetry is ingenuousness, of the second, sim- 
plicity, of the third, truth. The rhapsodists mark the transi- 
tion from the lyric to th? epic poets, as do the romancists 
that from the lyria'tfitfie dramatic poets. Historians appear 
in the second period, chroniclers and critics in the third. 
The characters of the ode are colossi — Adam, Cain, Noah; 
those of the epic are giants — Achilles, Atreus, Orestes; those 
of the drama are men— Hamlet, Macbeth, Othello. The ode 
lives upon the ideal, the epic upon the grandiose, the drama 
upon the real. Lastly, this threefold poetry flows from three 
great sources — The Bible, Homer, Shakespeare. 

Such then — and we confine ourselves herein to noting a 
single result — such are the diverse aspects of thought in 
the different epochs of mankind and of civilization. Such are 
its three faces, in youth, in manhood, in old age. Whether 
one examines one literature by itself or all literatures e» 
masse, one will always reach the same result: the lyric 
poets before the epic poets, the epic poets before the dra- 
matic poets. In France, Malberbe before Chapelain. Chape- 
lain before Corneille; in ancient Greece, Orpheus before 
Homer, Homer before ^schylus; in the first of all books, 
Cenetis before Kings, Kings before Job; or to come back 



TO CROMWELL 371 

i that monumental scale of all ages of poetry, which we 
"tva over a moment since, The Bible before the Iliad, the 
Iliad before Shakespeare. 

In a word, civilization begins by singing of its dreams, 
then narrates its doings, and, lastly, sets about describing 
what it thinks. It is, let us say in passing, because of 
this last, that the drama, combining the most opposed 
qualities, may be at the same time full of profundity and 
full of relief, philosophical and picturesque. 

It would be logical to add here that everything in nature 
and in life passes through these three phases, the lyric, the 
epic, and the dramatic, because everything is born, acts, 
and dies. If it were not absurd to confound the fantastic 
conceits of the imagination with the stern deductions of the 
reasoning faculty, a poet might say that the rising of the 
sun, for example, is a hymn, noon-day a brilliant epic, and 
sunset B gloomy drama wherein day and night, life and 
death, contend for mastery. But that would be poetry — 
folly, perhaps — and arhat does it proveT 

Let us hold to the facts marshalled above; let us sup- 
plement them, too, by an important observation, namely 
that we have in no wise pretended to assign exclusive lim- 
its to the three epochs of poetry, but simply to set forth 
their predominant characteristics. The Bible, that divine 
lyric monument, contains in germ, as we suggested a mo- 
jnent ago, an epic and a drama — Kings and Job. In the 
Homeric poems one is conscious of a clinging reminiscence 
of lyric poetry and of a beginning of dramatic poetry. 
Ode and drama meet in the epic There is a touch of all 
in each; but in each there exists a generative element to 
which all the other elements give place, and which imposes 
its own character upon the whole. 

The drama is complete poetry. The ode and the epic 
contain it only in germ ; it contains both of them in a state of 
high development, and epitomizes both. Surely, he who 
said: "The French have not the epic brain," said a true 
and clever thing; if he had said, "The modems," the clever 
remark would have been profound. It is beyond question, 
however, that there is epic genius in that marvellous Atkalie, 
to exalted and so simple in its sublimity that the royal centui? 



3ff VICTOR HUGO 

was unable to comprehend it It is certain, too, tbat Ox 
series of Shakespeare's chronicle dramas presents a. grand 
epic aspect. But it is lyric poetry above all that befits the 
drama; it aever embarrasses it, adapts itself to all its caprices, 
disports itself in all forms, sometimes sublime as in Arid, 
sometimes grotesque as in Caliban. Our era bein; above all 
else dramatic, is for that very reason eminently l/ric. There 
is more than one connection between the beginning and the 
end; the sunset has some features of the sunrise; the old man 
becomes a child once more. But this second childhood is 
not like the first ; it is as melancholy as the other is Joyous. 
It is the same with lyric poetry. Dazzling, dreamy, at the 
dawn of civilization, it reappears, solemn and pensive, at its 
decline. The Bible opens joyously with Genesis and comes 
to a close with the threatening Apocalypse. The modem ode 
is still inspired, but is no longer ignorant It meditates 
more than it scrutinizes ; its musing is melancholy. We see, 
by its painful labour, that the muse has taken the drama 
for her mate. 

To make clear by a metaphor the ideas that we have ven- 
tured to put forth, we will compare early lyric poetry to a 
placid lake which reflects the clouds and stars ; the epic is 
the stream which flows from the lake, and rushes on, re- 
flecting its banks, forests, fields and cities, until it throws 
itself into the ocean of the drama. Like the lake, the drama 
reflects the sky; like the stream, it reflects its banks; but 
it alone has tempests and measureless depths. 

The drama, then, is the goal to which everything in 
modern poetry leads. Paradise Lost is a drama before it is 
an epic. As we know, it first presented itself to the poet's 
imagination in the first of these forms, and as a drama it 
always remains in the reader's memory, so prominent is the 
old dramatic framework still beneath Milton's epic struc- 
ture I When Dante had finished his terrible Inferno, when 
he had closed its doors and nought remained save to give 
his work a name, the unerring instinct of his genius showed 
him that that multiform poem was an emanation of the 
drama, not of the epic; and on the front of that gigantic 
monument, he wrote with his pen of bronze: Dtvma 
Commedia. 



TO CROMWELL 57S 

^ Thus we see that the only two poets of modern times who 

e of Shakespeare's stature follow him in unity of design. 
They coincide with him in imparting a dramatic tinge to 
all our poetry; like him, they blend the grotesque with the 
sublime ; and, far from standing by themselves in the great 
literary ensemble that rests upon Shakespeare, Dante and 
Milton are, in some sort, the two supporting abutments of 
the edifice of which he is the centra! pillar, the buttresses 
of the arch of which he is the keystone. 

Permit us, at this point, to recur to certain ideas already 
suggested, which, however, it is necessary to emphasize. 
We have arrived, and now we must set out again. 

On the day when Christianity said to man : " Thou art 
twofold, thou art made up of two beings, one perisliabJe, the 
other immortal, one carnal, the other ethereal, one en- 
slaved by appetites, cravings and passions, the other borne 
aloft on the wings of enthusiasm and reverie — in a word, 
the one always stooping toward the earth, its mother, the 
other always darting up toward heaven, its fatherland" — 
on that day the drama was created. Is it, in truth, any- 
thing other than that contrast of every day, tliat struggle 
of every moment, between two opposing principles which 
are ever face to face in life, and which dispute possession 
of man from the cradle to the tomb? 

The poetry born of Christianity, the poetry of our time, 
is, therefore, the drama; the real results from the wholly 
natural combination of two types, the sublime and the 
grotesque, which meet in the drama, as they meet in 
life and in creation. For true poetry, complete poetry, 
consists in the harmony of contraries. Hence, it is time 
to say aloud — and it is here above all that exceptions 
prove the rule — that everything that exists in nature 
exists in art, 

On taking one's stand at this point of view, to pass judg- 
ment on our petty conventional rules, to disentangle all those 
scholastic labyrinths, to solve all those trivia! problems which 
the critics of the last two centuries have laboriously built up 
about the art, one is struck by the promptitude with which 
the question of the modem stage is made clear and distinct. 
The drama has but to take a step to break all the spider's webs 



374 



YICTOR HUGO 



with which the militia of Lilliput have attempted to fetter 
its sleep. 

And so, let addle-pated pedants (one does not exclude 
the other) claim that the deformed, the ugly, the grotesque 
should never be imitated in art; one replies that the gro- 
tesque is comedy, and that comedy apparently makes a part 
of art Tarluffe is not handsome, Pourceaugnac is not noble, 
but Pourceaugnac and Tartuffe are admirable dashes of art. 

If, driven back from this entrenchment to their second 
line of custom-houses, they renew their prohibition of tlie 
grotesque coupled with tlie sublime, of comedy melted into 
tragedy, we prove to them that, in the poetry of Christian 
nations, the first of these two types represents the human 
beast, the second the soul. These two stalks of art, if we 
prevent their branches from mingling-, if we persistently 
separate them, will produce by way of fruit, on tlie i^ne 
hand abstract vices and absurdities, on the other, abstract 
crime, heroism and virtue. The two types, thus isolated 
and left to themselves, will go each its own way, leaving 
the real between them, at the left hand of one, at the right 
hand of the other. Whence it follows that after all these 
abstractions there will remain something to represent — 
man; after these tragedies and comedies, something to 
create — the drama. 

In the drama, as it may he conceived at least, if not 
executed, all things are connected and follow one another 
as in real life. The body plays its part no less than the 
mind; and men and events, set in motion by this twofold 
agent, pass across the stage, burlesque and terrible in turn, 
and sometimes both at once. Thus the judge will say: 
"Off with his head and let us go to dinner!" Thus tlie 
Roman Senate will deliberate over Domitian's turbot Thus 
Socrates, drinking the hemlock and discoursing on the im- 
mortal soul and the only God, will interrupt himself to 
suggest that a cook be sacrificed to ^^sculapius. Thus 
Elizabeth will swear and talk Latin. Thus Richelieu will 
submit to Joseph the Capuchin, and Louis XI to his barber, 
Maitre Olivier le Diable. Thus Cromwell will say: "I 
have Parliament in my bag and the King in my pocket"; 
' or, with the hand that signed the death sentence of Charles 



TO CROMWELL 

the First, smear with ink the face of a regicide who smil- 
ingly returns the compliment. Thus Cssar, in his triumphal 
car, will be afraid of overturning. For men of genius, 
however great they be, have always within them a touch 
of the beast which mocks at their intelligence. Therein they 
are akin to mankind in general, for therein they are dramatic. 
" It is but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous," said 
Napoleon, when he was convinced that he was mere man; 
and that outburst of a soul on fire illumines art and history 
at once; that cry of anguish is the resume of the drama and 
of life. 

It is a striking fact that all these contrasts are met with 
in the poets themselves, taken as men. By dint of meditat- 
ing upon existence, of laying stress upon its hitter irony, 
of pouring floods of sarcasm and raillery upon our infirm- 
ities, the very men who make us laugh so heartily become 
profoundly sad. These Democrituses are Heraclituses as 
well. Beaumarchais was surly, Moliere gloomy, Shakespeare 
melancholy. 

The fact is, then, that the grotesque is one of the supreme 
beauties of the drama. It is not simply an appropriate 
element of it, but is oftentimes a necessity. Sometimes it 
appears in homogeneous masses, in entire characters, as 
Daudin, Prusias, Trissotin, Brid'oison, Juliet's nurse; some- 
times impregnated with terror, as Richard III, Begears, 
Tartuffe, Mephistopheles ; sometimes, too, with a veil of 
grace and refinement, as Figaro, Osric, Mercutio, Don Juan, 
It finds its way in everywhere: for just as the most com- 
monplace have their occasional moments of sublimity, so 
the most exalted frequently pay tribute to the trivial and 
ridiculous. Thus, often impalpable, often imperceptible, it 
is always present on the stage, even when it says nothing, 
even when it keeps out of sight. Thanks to it, there is no 
thought of monotony. Sometimes it injects laughter, some- 
times horror, into tragedy. It will bring Romeo face to face 
with the apothecary, Macbeth with the witches, Hamlet with 
the grave-diggers. Sometimes it may, without discord, as in 
the scene between King Lear and his jester, mingle its shrill 
voice with the most sublime, the most dismal, the dreamiest 
uiDUsic of the soul. 



376 



VICTOB HUGO 



That is what Shakespeare alone among all has succeeded 
in doing, in a fashion of his own, which it would be no 
less fruitless than impossible to imitate — Shakespeare, the 
god of the stage, in whom, as in a trinity, the three char- 
acteristic geniuses of our stage, Comeille, Moliere, Beau- 
ma rchais, seem united. 

Wc see how quickly the arbitrary distinction between the 
species of poetry vanishes before common sense and taste. 
No less easily one might demolish the alleged nUe of the 
two unities. We say two and not Ihree unities, because 
unity of plot or of ensemble, the only true and well-founded 
one, was long ago removed from the sphere of discussion. 

Distinguished contemporaries, foreigners and Frenchmen, 
have already attacked, both in theory and in practice, that 
fundamental law of the p sen do -Aristotelian code. Indeed, 
the combat was not likely to be a long one. At the first 
blow it cracked, so worm-eaten was that timber of the old 
scholastic hovel ! 

The strange thing is that the slaves of routine pretend 
to rest their rule of the two unities on probability, whereas 
reality is the very thing that destroys it Indeed, what 
could be more improbable and absurd than this porch or 
peristyle or ante-^Jiamber — vulgar places where our trage- 
dies are obliging enough to develop themselves; whither 
conspirators come, no one knows whence, to declaim against 
the tyrant, and the tyrant to declaim against the con- 
spirators, each in turn, as if they had said to one another 
in bucolic phrase: — 



Altemis 



amant attema Cataeiue:. 



Where did anyone ever see a porch or peristyle of that 
sort? What could be more opposed — we will not say to 
the truth, for the scholastics hold it very cheap, but to 
probability? The result is that everything that is too 
characteristic, too intimate, too local, to happen in the 
ante-chamber or on the street-comer — that is to say, the 
whole drama — takes place in the wings. We see on the 
stage only the elbows of the plot, so to speak; its hands 
are somewhere else. Instead of scenes we have narrative; 
ilutead of tableaux, descriptions. Solemn-faced characters, 



TO CROMWELL 377 

laced, as in the old chorus, between the drama and our- 
selves, tell us what is going on in the temple, in the palace, 
on the public square, until we are tempted many a time 
to call out to them: "Indeed! then take us there! It 
must be very entertaining — a fine sight I" To which they 
would reply no doubt; "It is quite possible that it might 
entertain or interest you, but that isn't the question ; we are 
the guardians of the dignity of the French Melpomene." And 
there you are 1 

" But," someone will say, " this rule that you discard is 
borrowed from the Greek drama." Wherein, pray, do the 
Greek stage and drama resemble our stage and drama? 
Moreover, we have already shown that the vast extent of 
the ancient stage enabled it to include a whole locality, so 
that the poet could, according to the exigencies of the plot, 
transport it at his pleasure from one part of the stage to 
another, which is praWically equivalent to a change of stage- 
setting. Curious contradiction ! the Greek theatre, restricted 
as it was to a national and religious object, was much more 
free than ours, whose only object is the enjoyment, and, if 
you please, the instruction, of the spectator. The reason is 
that the one obeys only the laws that are suited to it, while the 
other takes upon itself conditions of existence which are 
absolutely foreign to its essence. One is artistic, the other 
artificial. 

People are beginning to understand in our day that exact 
localization is one of the first elements of reality. The speak- 
ing or acting characters are not the only ones who engrave on 
the minds of the spectators a faithful representation of the 
facts. The place where this or that catastrophe took place 
becomes a terrible and inseparable witness thereof; and the 
absence of silent characters of this sort would make the 
greatest scenes cf history incomplete in the drama. Would 
the poet dare to murder Rizzio elsewhere than in Mnry 
Stuart's chamber? to stab Henri IV elsewhere than in Rue 
de la Ferronerie, alt blocked with drays and carriages? to 
bum Jeanne d'Arc elsewhere than in the Vieux-March^ ? to 
despatch the Due de Guise elsewhere than in that chateau of 
Blois where his ambition roused a popular assemblage to 
frenzy ? to behead Charles I and Louis XVI elsewhere than in 



^ 



those ill-omened localities whence Whitehall or the Tuileries 
may be seen, as if their scaffolds were appurtenajices of their 
palaces ? 

Unity of lime rests on no firmer foundation than unity 
of place. A plot forcibly confined within twenty-four hours 
is as absurd as one confined within a peristyle. Every plot 
has its proper duralion as well as its appropriate place. Think 
of administering the Bame dose of time to all events! of 
applying the same measure to everything! You would laugh 
at a cobbler who should attempt to put the same shoe on 
every fooL To cross unity of time and unity of place like 
the bars of a cage, and pedantically to introduce therein, in 
the name of Aristotle, all tlie deeds, all the nations, all the 
figures which Providence sets before us in such vast numbers 
in real life, — to proceed thus is to mutilate men and things, 
to cause history to make wry faces. Let us say, rather, that 
everything will die in the operation, and so the dogmatic 
mutilaters reach their ordinary result : what was alive in the 
chronicles is dead in tragedy. That is why the cage of the 
unities often contains only a skeleton. 

And then, if twenty-four hours can be comprised In two, 
it is a logical consequence that four hours may contain forty- 
eight. Thus Shakespeare's unity must be different from 
Corneille's, 'Tis pity 1 

But these are the wretched quibbles with which medi- 
ocrity, envy and routine has pestered genius for two cen- 
turies past! By such means the flight of our greatest poets 
has been cut short. Their wings have been dipped with the 
scissors of the unities. And what has been given us in ex- 
change for the eagle feathers stolen from CoroeiUe and 
Racine? Campistron. 

We imagine that someone may say : " There is some- 
thing in too frequent changes of scene which confuses and 
fatigues the spectator, and which produces a bewildering 
efifect on his attention; it may be, too, that manifold tran- 
sitions from place to place, from one time to another tim^ 
demand explanations which repel the attention; one should 
also avoid leaving, in the midst of a plot, gaps which pre- 
vent the different parts of the drama from adhering closely 
to one another, and which, moreover, puzzle the spectator 



TO CROMWELL 



379 



Ecause he does not know what there may be in those gaps." 
Sut these are precisely the difficulties which art has to mceL 
These are some of the obstacles peculiar to one subject or 
another, as to which it would be impossible to pass judgment 
once for all. It is for genius to overcome, not for treatises 
or poetry to evade them. 

A final argument, taken from the very bowels of the art, 
would of itself suffice to show the absurdity of the rule of 
the two unities. It is the existence of the third unity, unity 
of plot — the only one that is universally admitted, because it 
results from a fact: neither the human eye nor the human 
mind can grasp more than one ensemble at one time. This 
one is as essential as the other two are useless. It is the one 
which fixes the view-point of the drama; now, by that very 
fact, it excludes the other two. There can no more be three 
unities in the drama than three horizons in a picture. But 
let us be careful not to confound unity with simplicity of 
plot. The former does not in any way exclude the secondary 
plots on which the principal plot may depend. It is necessary 
on!y that these parts, being skilfully subordinated to the gen- 
era! plan, shall tend constantly toward the central plot and 
group themselves about it at the various stages, or rather on 
the various levels of the drama. Unity of plot is the stage law 
oil perspective, 

"But," the customs-officers of thought will cry. "great 
geniuses have submitted to these rules which you spurn!" 
Unfortunately, yes. But what would those admirable men 
have done if they had been left to themselves? At all events 
they did not accept your chains without a struggle. You 
should have seen how Pierre Corneille, worried and harassed 
3t his first step in the art on account of his marvellous work, 
Le Cid, struj^led under Mairet, Claveret, d'Aubignac and 
Scuderi I How he denounced to posterity the violent attacks 
of those men, who, he says, made themselves "all white with 
Aristotle!" You should read how they said to him — and 
we quote from books of the time: "Young man, you must 
learn before you teach ; and unless one is a Scaliger or a 
Heinsius that is intolerable!" Thereupon Corneiile rebels 
and asks if their purpose is to force him "much below 
. ^yeret" Here Scuderi wkxcs indignant at such a display 



^JtO VICTOH HUGO 

of pride, and reminds the " thrice great author of Le Cid 
of the modest words in which Tasso, the greatest man of his 
age, began his apology for the hnest of his works against the 
bitterest and most unjust censure perhaps that will ever be 
pronounced. M. Comeille," he adds, "shows in his replies 
that he is as far removed from that author's moderation as 
from his merit." The young man so justly and gently reproved 
dares to protest ; thereupon Scuderi returns to the charge ; he 
calls to his assistance the Eminent Academy: "Pronounce, 
O my Judges, a decree worthy of your eminence, which will 
give all Europe to know that Le Cid is not the chef-d'oeuvre 
of the greatest man in France, but the least judicious per- 
formance of M, Comeille himself. You arc bound to do it, 
both for your own private renown ; and for that of our people 
in general, who are concerned in this matter; inasmuch as 
foreigners who may see this precious masterpiece — they who 
have possessed a Tasso or a Guarini — might think that our 
greatest masters were no more than apprentices." 

These few instructive lines contain the everlasting tactics 
of envious routine against growing talent — tactics which are 
Still followed in our own day, and which, fur example, added 
such a curious page to the youthful essays of Lord Byron. 
Scuderi gives us its quintessence. In like manner the earlier 
works of a man of genius are always preferred to the newer 
ones, in order to prove that he is going down instead of up — 
Milite and La GaUrie du Palais placed above Le Cid. And 
the names of the dead are always thrown at the heads of the 
living — Comeille stoned with Tasso and Guarini (Guarinil), 
as, later, Racine will be stoned with Comeille, Voltaire with 
Racine, and as to-day, everyone who shows signs of rising is 
Stoned with Comeille, Racine and Voltaire. These tactics, as 
will be seen, are well-wom ; but they must be effective as they 
are still in use. However, the poor devil of a great man still 
breathed. Here we cannot help but admire the way in which 
Scuderi, the bully of this tragic-comedy, forced to the wall, 
blackguards and maltreats him, how pitilessly he unmasks 
his classical artillery, how he shows the author of Le Cid 
"what the episodes should be. according to Aristotle, who 
tells us in the tenth and sixteenth chapters of his Poetics"; 
how he crushes Comeille, in the name of the same Aristotle 



^ TO CROUWELL 381 

^in the eleventh chapter of his Art of Poetry, wherein we 
■ find the condemnation of Le Cid"; in the name of Plato, 
" in the tenth book of his Republic "; in the name of Mar- 
cellinus, " as may be seen in the twenty -seventh book " ; in 
the name of " the tragedies of Niobe and Jephthah " ; in 
the name of the " Ajax of Sophocles " ; in the name of 
"the example of Euripides"; in the name of " Heinsius, 
chapter six of the Constitution of Tragedy; and the younger 
Scaliger in his poems " ; and finally, in the name of the 
Canonists and Jurisconsults, under the title "Nuptials." 
The first arguments were addressed to the Academy, the 
last one was aimed at the Cardinal. After the pin-pricks 
the blow with a club. A judge was needed to decide the 
question. Chapelain gave judgment, ComeiUe saw that he 
was doomed; the lion was muzzled, or, as was said at the 
time, the crow (Conieille) was plucked. Now comes the 
painful side of this grotesque performance: after he had 
been thus quenched at his first flash, this genius, thoroughly 
modern, fed upon the Middle Ages and Spain, being com- 
pelled to lie to himself and to hark back to ancient times, 
drew for us tliat Castilian Rome, which is sublime beyond 
question, but in which, except perhaps in NicomHe, which 
was so ridiculed by the eighteenth century for its dignified 
and simple colouring, we find neither the real Rome nor 
the true Corneille. 

Racine was treated to the same persecution, but did not 
make the same resistance. Neither in his genius nor in his 
character was there any of Comeille's lofty asperity. He 
submitted in silence and sacrificed to the scorn of his 
time his enchanting elegy of Esther, his magnificent epic, 
Alhalie. So that we can but believe that, if he had not 
been paralyzed as he was by the prejudices of his epoch, if 
he had come in contact less frequently with the classic 
cramp-fish, he would not have failed to introduce Locuste 
in his drama between Narcisse and Neron, and above all 
things would not have relegated to the wings the admirable 
scene of the banquet at which Seneca's pupil poisons 
Britannicus in the cup of reconciliation. But can we de- 
mand of the bird that he fly under the receiver of an air- 
mp7 What a multitude of beautiful scenes the people 



gn VICTOB HTTGO 

of tasle have cost us, from Scuderi to La Harpel A noble 
work might be composed of all that tbeir scorcbing breath 
has withered in its germ. However, our great poets have 
found a way none the less to cause their genius to blaze 
forth through all these obstacles. Often the attempt to 
con6ne them behind walls of dogmas and rules is vain. 
Like the Hebrew giant they carry their prison doors with 
them to the mountains. 

But still the same refrain is repeated, and will be, no 
doubt, for a long while to come: "Follow the rules I Copy 
the models I It was the rules that shaped the models." 
One moment! In that case there are two sorts of models, 
those which are made according to the rules, and, prior to 
them, those according to which the rules were made. Now, 
in which of these two categories should genius seek a place 
for itself? Although it is always disagreeable to come in 
contact with pedants, is it not a thousand times better to give 
them lessons than to receive lessons from them? And 
then — copy! Is the reflection equal to the Hght? Is the 
satellite which travels unceasingly in the same circle equal 
to the central creative planet? With all his poetry Virgil 
is no more than the moon of Homer. 

And whom are we to copy, I pray to know? The 
ancients? We have just shown that their stage has nothing 
in common with ours. Moreover, Voltaire, who will havs 
none of Shakespeare, will have none of the Greeks, either. 
Let him tell us why: "The Greeks ventured to produce 
scenes no less revolting to us. Hippolyte, crushed by his 
fall, counts his wounds and utters doleful cries. Philoctetes 
falls in his paroxysms of pain; black blood flows from his 
wound. (Edipus, covered with the blood that still drops 
from the sockets of the eyes he has torn out, complains. 
bitterly of gods and men. We hear the shrieks of Cly- 
temnestra, murdered by her own son, and Electra, on the 
stage, cries: 'Strike I spare her not! she did not spare 
our father.' Prometheus is fastened to a rock by nails 
driven through his stomach and his arms. The Furies reply 
to Clytemnestra's bleeding shade with inarticulate roars. 
Art was in its infancy in the time of .£schylus as it was 
in London in Shakespeare's time." 



TO CROMWELL 393 

t Whom shall we copy, then? The moderns? What! 
-copy copies I God forbid! 

" But," someone else will object, " according to your 
conception of the art, you seem to look for none but great 
poets, to count always upon genius." Art certainly does 
not count upon mediocrity. It prescribes no rules for it, 
it knows nothing of it ; in fact, mediocrity has no existence 
so far as art is concerned ; art supplies wings, not crutches. 
Alas ! D'Aubignac followed rules, Campistron copied mod- 
els. What does it matter to art? It does not build its pal- , 
aces for ants. It lets them make their ant-hill, without ' 
taking the trouble to find out whether they have built their 
burlesque imitation of its palace upon its foundation. 

The critics of the scholastic school place their poets in a 
strange position. On the one hand they cry incessantly : 
" Copy the models ! " On the other hand they have a habit 
of declaring that " the models are inimitable !" Now, 
if their craftsman, by dint of hard work, succeeds in forcing 
through this dangerous defile some colourless, tracing of 
the masters, these ungrateful wretches, after examining the 
new refaccitnienio, exclaim sometimes: "This doesn't re- 
semble anything I" and sometimes: " This resembles every- 
thing !" And by virtue of a logic made for the occasion each 
of these formulae is a criticism. 

Let us then speak boldly. The time for it has come, and 
it would be strange if, in this age, liberty, like the light, 
should penetrate everywhere except to the one place where 
freedom is most natural — the domain of thought. Let us 
take the hammer to theories and poetic systems. Let us 
throw down the old plastering that conceals the fai^ade 
of art. There are neither rules nor models; or, rather, 
there are no other rules than the general laws of nature, 
which soar above the whole field of art, and the special 
rules which result from the conditions appropriate to the 
subject of each composition. The former are of the es- 
sence, eternal, and do not change ; the latter are variable, 
external, and are used but once. The former are the frame- 
work that supports the house; the latter the scaffolding 
which is used in building it, and which is made anew for 
each building. In a word, the former are the flesh and 



VICTOR HUGO 

bones, the latter the clothing, of tbe drama. But tiiese 
rules arc not written in the treatises oa poetry. Richelet 
has no idea of their existence. Gynhis, which divines 
lather than leams, devises for each worl: the general 
roles from the general plan of things, the special rules from 
the separate ensemble of the subject treated; not after the 
manner of the chemist, who tights the fire under his fur- 
nace, heats his crucible, analyses and destroys; but after 
the manner of the bee, which Sies on its golden wings, 
lights on each flower and extracts its boney, learing it as 
brilliant and fragrant as before. 

The poet — let us insist on this point — should talce counsel 
therefore only of nature, truth, and inspiration which is 
itself both truth and nature. " Quando be," says Lope de 
Vega, 

" Quando be de escriTir una cmaedia, 
Bocierro los preceptos cod seia IlaTcs." 

To secure these precepts " six keys " are none too many, 
in very truth. Let the poet beware especially of copying 
anything whatsoever — Shakespeare no more than Moliere, 
Schiller no more than Comeille. If genuine talent could 
abdicate its own nature in this matter, and thus lay aside 
its original personality, to transform itself into another. 
it would lose everything by playing this role of its own 
double. It is as if a god should turn valet. We must draw 
our inspiration from the original sources. It is the same 
sap, distributed through the soil, that produces all the trees 
of the forest, so different in bearing power, in fruit, in 
foliage. It is the same nature that fertilizes and nourishes 
the most diverse geniuses. The poet is a tree that may 
be blown about by all winds and watered by every fall of 
dew; and bears his works as his fruit, as the fablier of 
old bore his fables. Why attach one's self to a master, or 
graft one's self upon a model? It were better to be a 
bramble or a thistle, fed by the same earth as the cedar and 
the palm, than the fungus or the lichen of those noble 
trees. The bramble lives, the fungus vegetates. More- 
over, however great the cedar and the palm may be, it is 
not with the sap one sucks from them that one can become 
great one's self. A giant's parasite will be at best a dwarf. 



TO CROMWBIJ, SS5 

f oak, colossus that it is, can produce and sustain nothing 
more than the mistletoe. 

Let there be no misunderstanding: if some of our poets 
have succeeded in being great, even when copying, it is 
because, while forming themselves on the antique model, 
they have often listened to the voice of nature and to their 
own genius — it is because they have been themselves in 
some one respect, Their branches became entangled in 
those of the near-by tree, but their roots were buried deep 
in the soil of art. They were the ivy, not the mistletoe. 
Then came imitators of the second rank, who, having 
neither roots in the earth, nor genius in their souls, had 
to confine themselves to imitation. As Charles Nodier 
says: "After the school of Athens, the school of Alex- 
andria." Then there was a deluge of mediocrity; then 
there came a swarm of those treatises on poetry, so annoy- 
ing to tnie talent, so convenient for mediocrity. We were 
told that everything was done, and God was forbidden to 
create more Molieres or Comeilles. Memory was put in 
place of imagination. Imagination itself was subjected to 
hard-and-fast rules, and aphorisms were made about it: 
"To imagine," says La Harpe, with his naive assurance, 
" is in substance to remember, that is all." 

But nature I Nature and truth ! — And here, in order to 
prove that, far from demolishing art, the new ideas aim 
only to reconstruct it more firmly and on a better founda- 
tion, let us try to point out the impassable limit which 
in our opinion, separates reality according to art from 
reality according to nature. It is careless to confuse them 
as some ill-informed partisans of romanticism do. Truth 
in art cannot possibly be, as several writers have claimed, 
absolute reality. Art cannot produce the thing itself. Let 
us imagine, for example, one of those unreflecting pro- 
moters of absolute nature, of nature viewed apart from art. 
at the performance of a romantic play, say Le Cid. " What's 
thatl"' he will ask at the first word. "The Cid speaks in 
verse? It isn't natural to speak in verse." — "How would 
you have him speak, pray?" — "In prose."' Very good. A 
moment later, " How's this ! " he will continue, if he 
ia co nMstent; "the Cid is speaking French 1" — ^"Wcll?"— • 

(13) UC— Vol, 39 



VTOTOR HUGO 

" Nature demands that he speak his own language ; he cant 
speak anything but Spanish." 

We shall fail entirely to understand, but again — very 
good. You imagine that this is all? By no means: before 
the tenth sentence in Castilian, he is certain to rise and 
ask if the Cid who is speaking is the real CId, in flesh 
and blood. By what right does the actor, whose nanie is 
Pierre or Jacques, take the name of the Cid? That is false. 
There is no reason why he should not go on to demand that 
the Sim should be substituted for the footlights, real trees 
and real houses for those deceitful wings. For, once started 
on that road, logic has you by the collar, and you cannot 
slop. 

We must admit, therefore, or confess ourselves ridiculous, 
that the domains of art and of nature are entirely distinct. 
Nature and art are two things — ^wcre it not so, one or 
the other would not exist. Art, in addition to its idealistic 
side, has a terrestrial, material side. Let it do what it 
will, it is shut in between grammar and prosody, between 
Vaugelas and Richelet For its most capricious creations, 
it has formulae, methods of execution, a compiete apparatus 
to set in motion. For genius there are delicate instruments, 
for mediocrity, tools. 

It seems to us that someone has already said that the 
drama is a mirror wherein nature is reflected. But if it 
be an ordinary mirror, a smooth and polished surface, it 
will give only a dull image of objects, with no relief — 
faithful, but colourless; everyone knows that colour and 
light are lost in a simple reflection. The drama, there- 
fore, must he a concentrating mirror, which, instead of 
weakening, concentrates and condenses the coloured rays, 
which makes of a mere gleam a light, and of a light a 
flame. Then only is the drama acknowledged by art 

The stage is an optical point Everything that exists in 
the world — in history, in life, in man — should be and can 
be reflected therein, but under the magic wand of art. Art 
turns the leaves of the ages, of nature, studies chron- 
icles, strives to reproduce actual facts (especially in re- 
spect to manners .ind peculiarities, which are much less 
exposed to doubt and contradiction than are concrete facts). 



TO CROMWELL 387 

tores what the chroniclers have lopped o£f, harmonises 
[ they have collected, divines and supplies their omis- 
sions, fills their gaps with imaginary scenes which have the 
colour of the time, groups what they have left scattered 
about, sets in motion anew the tlireads of Providence which 
work the human marionettes, clothes the whole with a 
form at once poetical and natural, and imparts to it that 
vitality of truth and brilliancy which gives birth to illusion, 
that prestige of reality which arouses the enthusiasm of the 
spectator, and of the poet 6rst of all, for the poet is 
sincere. Thus the aim of art is almost divine: to bring to 
life again if it is writing history, to create if it is writing 
poetry. 

It is a grand and beautiful sight to see this broad de- 
velopment of a drama wherein art powerfully seconds na- 
ture; of a drama wherein the plot moves on to the con- 
clusion with a firm and unembarrassed step, without dit- 
fuseness and without undue compression; of a drama, 
in short, wherein the poet abundantly fulfills the multifold 
object of art, which is to open to the spectator a double 
prospect, to illuminate at the same time the interior and 
the exterior of mankind: the exterior by their speech and 
their acts, the interior, by asides and monologues; to bring 
together, in a word, in the same picture, the drama of life 
and the drama of conscience. 

It will readily be imagined that, for a work of this 
kind, if the poet must choose (and he must), he should 
choose, not the beautiful, but the characteristic. Not that 
it is advisable to "make local colour," as they say to-day; 
that is, to add as an afterthought a few discordant touches 
here and there to a work that is at beat utterly conventional 
and false. The local colour should not be on the surface of 
the drama, but in its substance, in the very heart of the 
work, whence it spreads of itself, naturally, evenly, and, so 
to speak, into every comer of the drama, as the sap ascends 
from the root to the tree's topmost leaf. The drama 
should be thoroughly impregnated with this colour of the 
time, which should be. in some sort, in the air, so that one 
detects it only on entering the theatre, and that on going 
forth one finds one's self in a different period and atmos- 



tn VICTOR HUGO 

phere. It requires some study, some labour, to attain thJa 
end; so much the better. It is well that the avenues of art 
should be obstructed by those brambles from which every- 
body recoils except those of powerful will. Besides, it is 
this very study, fostered by an ardent inspiration, which will 
ensure the drama against a vice that kills it — the common- 
place. To be commonplace is the failing of short-sighted, 
short-breathed poets. In this tableau of the stage, each 
figure must be held down to its most prominent, most 
individual, most precisely defined characteristic. Even the 
vulgar and the trivial should have an accent of their own. 
Like God, the true poet is presnet in every part of his work 
at once. Genius resembles the die which stamps the king's 
effigy on copper and golden coins alike. 

We do not hesitate — and this will demonstrate once more 
lo honest men how far we are from seeking to discredit 
the art — we do not hesitate to consider verse as one of 
the means best adapted to protect the drama from the 
scourge we have just mentioned, as one of the most power- 
ful dams against the irruption of the commonplace, which, 
like democracy, is always flowing between full banks in 
men's minds. And at this point we beg the younger literary 
generation, already so rich in men and in works, to allow 
us lo point out an error into which it seems to have fallen 
— an error too fully Justified, indeed, by the extraordinary 
aberrations of the old school. The new century is at that 
growing age at which one can readily set one's self right 

There has appeared of late, like a penultimate branch- 
ing-out of the old classical trunk, or. better still, like one 
of those excrescences, those polypi, which decrepitude de- 
velops, and which are a sign of decomposition much more 
than a proof of liic — there has appeared a strange school 
of dramatic poetry. This school seems to us to have had 
for its master and its fountain-head the poet who marks 
the transition from the eighteenth to the nineteenth cen- 
tury, the man of wearisome description and periphrases 
— that Delille who, they say, toward the close of his life, 
boasted, after the fashion of the Homeric catalogues, of 
hanng minie twelve camels four dogs, three horses, in- 
cluding Job's, £ix tigers, two cats, a chess-board, a back- 



gammon-board, a checker-board, a billiard- table, several 
winters, many summers, a multitude of springs, fifty sun- 
sets, and so many daybreaks that he had tost count of 
them. 

Now, Delille went into tragedy. He is the father (he, 
and not Racine, God save the mark I) of an alleged school 
of refinement and laste which flourished until recently. 
Tragedy is not to this school what it was to Will Shakes- 
peare, say, a source of emotions of every sort, but a 
convenient frame for the solution of a multitude of petty 
descriptive problems which it propounds as it goes along, 
This ranse, far from spurning, as the true French classic 
school does, the trivial and degrading things of life, 
eagerly seeks them out and brings them together. The 
grotesque, shunned as undesirable company by the tragedy 
of Louis the Fourteenth's day, cannot pass unnoticed be- 
fore her. Il itiust be described, that is to say, ennobled. 

A scene in the guard-house, a popular uprising, the fish- 
market, the galleys, the wine-shop, the poulc au pot of 
Henri Quatre, are treasure-trove in her eyes. She seizes 
upon this canaille, washes it clean, and sews her tinsel 
and spangles over its villainies; purpureus assuitur pan- 
nus. Her object seems to be to deliver patents of nobility 
to all these roturu-rs of the drama ; and each of these patents 
under the great seal is a speech. 

This muse, as may be imagined, is of a rare prudery. 
Wonted as she is to the caresses of periphrasis, plain- 
speaking, if she should occasionally be exposed to it, would 
horrify her. It does not accord with her dignity to speak 
naturally. She underlines old Corneille for his blunt way 
of speaking, as in, — 

" A Afafi of Men ruined by debt and Crimes," 

"Cbimeiie, inAo'd havt thought ilf Rudrlgue, wAo'd Jiavt twiitt" 

"When tlwilr FlainlnlnB hagglrdwith HaDaibal." 

"Obi do Dot iTatreiline with the Republic." 

Sbe still has her " Tout beau, monsieur ! " on her heart. 
And it needed many "seigneurs" and "madames" to pro- 



390 



VICTOR HUGO 



^ 



cure forgiveness for our admirable Racine for his mono* \ 
syllabic " dogs I " and for so brutally bestowing Oaudius 
in Agrippina's t>ed. 

This Melpomene, as she is called, would shudder at ttie 
thought of touching a chronide. She leaves to the 
turner the duty of learning the period of the dramas she 
writes. In her eyes history is bad form and bad t 
How, for example, can one tolerate kings and queens who 
swear? They must be elevated from mere regal dignity 
to tragic dignity. It was in a promotion of this sort that she 
exalted Henri IV. It was thus that the people's king,, 
purified by M. Legouve, found his " venlre-aaint-gris " 
ignominiously banished from his mouth by two sentences, 
and that he was reduced, like the giri in the old fabliau, 
to the necessity of letting fall from those royal lips only 
pearls and sapphires and rubies: the apotheosis of falsity, 
in very truth. 

The fact is that nothing is so commonplace as this coo- 
ventional refinement and nobility. Nothing original, no 
imagination, no invention in this style ; simply what i 
has seen everywhere — rhetoric, bombast, commonplace^ 
flowers of college eloquence, poetry after the style of 
Latin verses. The poets of this school are eloquent after 
the maimer of stage princes and princesses, always sure 
finding in the costumer's labelled cases, cloaks and pinch* 
beck crowns, which have no other disadvantage than tliat 
of having been used by everybody. If these poets never 
turn the leaves of the Bible, it is not because iliey havft 
not a bulky book of their own, the Dictionnaire dc rimes. 
That is the source of their poetry — fottles aguarum. 

It will be seen that, in all this, nature and truth ge 
along as best they can. It would be great good luck i 
any remnants of either should survive in this cataclyst 
of false art, false style, false poetry. This is what haj 
caused the errors of several of our distinguished reformer^ 
Disgusted by the stifTness, the ostentation, the pomposo, oi 
this alleged dramatic poetry, ihey have concluded that th< 
elements of our poetic language were incompatible with th 
natural and the true. Tile Alexandrine had wearied thei 
SO often, that they condemned it without giving It a beai 



rO CROMWEIX 391 

ing, so to speak, and decided, a little hastily, perhaps, that 
the drama should be written in prose. 

They were mistaken. If in fact the false is predominant 
in the style as well as in the action of certain French 
tragedies, it is not the verses that should be held re- 
sponsible therefore, but the versifiers. It was needful to 
condenm, not the form employed, but those who employed 
it: the workmen, not the tool. 

To convince one's self how few obstacles the nature of 
our poetry places in the way of the free expression of 
all that is true, we should study our verse, not in Racine, 
perhaps, but oftea in Corneiile and always in Moliere. 
Racine, a divine poet, is elegiac, lyric, epic; Moliere is 
dramatic It is time to deal sternly with the criticisms 
heaped upon that admirable style by the wretched taste of 
the last century, and to proclaim aloud that Moliere oc- 
cupies the topmost pinnacle of our drama, not only as a 
poet, but also as a writer. Pahnas fcre liabct isle duos. 

Id his work the verse surrounds the idea, becomes of 
its very essence, compresses and develops it at once, im- 
parts to it a more slender, more definite, more complete 
form, and gives us, in some sort, an extract thereof. Verse 
is the optical form of thought That is why it is especially 
adapted to the perspective of the stage. Constructed in 
a certain way, it communicates its relief to things which, 
but for it, would be considered insignificant and trivial. 
It makes the tissue of style finer and firmer. It is the 
knot which stays Ihe thread. It is the girdle which holda 
up the garment and gives it all its folds. What could 
nature and the true lose, then, by entering into verse? We 
ask the question of our prose-writers themselves — what do 
they lose in Moliere's poetry? Does wine — we beg pardon 
for another trivial illustration — does wine cease to be wine 
when it is bottled? 

If we were entitled to say what, in our opinion, the style 
of dramatic poetry should be, we would declare for a 
free, outspoken, sincere verse, which dares say everything 
without prudery, express its meaning without seeking for 
words; which passes naturally from comedy to tragedy, 
from the sublime to the grotesque; by turns practical and 



VICTOH HUGO 




f tXKtical. botb artistic and inspired, profound and Inqmlsire, 
[ of wide range and true; verse which is apt opportaDd^ 
lo displace the cxsura, in order to di^^uise the mODOtoay 
of Alexandrines; more inclined to_ the enjambement that 
lengthens the line, than to the inversion of phrases that 
confuses the sense; faithful to rhyme, that enslaved queen, 
that supreme charm of our poetry, that creator of our 
metre; verse that is inexhaustible in the verity of its turns 
of thought, unfathomable in its secrets of composition and 
of grace; assuming, like Proteus, a. thousand forms witfaoot 
chan^ng its type and character; avoiding long speeches; 
taking delight in dialogue; always hiding behind the char- 
acters of the drama; intent, before everything, on being 
in its place, and when it falls to its lot to be beautiful, 
being so only by chance, as it were, in spite of itself and 
unconsciously; lyric, epic, dramatic, at need; capable of 
running through the whole gamut of poetry, of skipping 
from high notes to low, from the most exalted to the most 
trivial ideas, from the most extravagant to the most solenm, 
from the most superficial to the most abstract, without 
ever passing beyond the limits of a spoken scene; i 
word, such verse as a man would write whom a fairy had 
endowed with Corncille's mind and Moliere's brain. It 
seems to us that such verse would be as fine as prose. 

There would be nothing in common between poetry o£ 
this sort and that of which w? made a post mortem exam- 
iuation just now. The distinction will be easy to point out 
if a certain man of talent, to whom the author of this 
book is under personal obligation, will allow us to borrow 
his clever phrase: the other poetry was descriptive, this 
would be picturesque. 

Let us repeat, verse on the stage should lay aside all 
self-love, all exigence, all coquetry. It is simply a form, 
and a form which should admit everything, which has no 
laws to impose on the drama, but ou the contrary should 
receive everything from it, to be transmitted to the spec- 
tator — French, Latin, texts of laws, royal oaths, popular 
phrases, comedy, tragedy, laughter, tears, prose and poetry. 
Woe to the poet whose verse does not speak out I But 
this form is a. form of bronze which encases the thought 



TO CROMWELL 393 

in its metre beneath which the drama is iodcstruetible, 
which engraves it more deeply on the actor's mind, warns 
him of what he omits and of what he adds, prevents him 
from changing his role, from substituting himself for the 
author, makes each word sacred, and causes what the poet 
has said to remain vivid a long while in the hearer's mem- 
ory. The idea, when steeped in verse, suddenly assumes 
a more incisive, more brilliant quality. 

One feels that prose, which is necessarily more timid, 
obliged to wean the drama from anything like epic or 
lyric poetry, reduced to dialogue and to matter-of-fact, 
is a long way from possessing these resources. It has much 
narrower wings. And then, too, it is much more easy of 
access ; mediocrity is at its ease in prose ; and for the 
sake of a few works of distinction such as have appeared 
of late, the art would very soon be overloaded with abor- 
tions and embryos. Another faction of the reformers in- 
cline to drama written in both prose and verse, as Shake- 
speare composed it. This method has its advantages. There 
might, however, be some incongruity in the transitions 
from one form to the other ; and when a tissue is homogene- 
ous it is much stouter. However, whether the drama 
should be written in prose is only a secondary question. 
The rank of a work is certain to be fixed, not according 
to its form, but according to its intrinsic value. In ques- 
tions of this sort, there is only one solution. Tliere is but 
one weight that can turn the scale in the balance of art — 
that is genius. 

Meanwhile, the first, the indispensable merit of a dra- 
matic writer, whether he write in prose or verse, ts cor- 
rectness. Not a mere superficial correctness, the merit or 
defect of the descriptive school, which makes Lhomond and 
Restaut the two wings of its Pegasus; but that intimate, 
deep-rooted, deliberate correctness, which is permeated with 
the genius of a language, which has sounded its roots and 
searched its etymology; always unfettered, because it is 
sure of its footing, and always more in harmony with the 
logic of the language. Our Lady Grammar leads the one 
in leading-strings; the other holds grammar in leash. It 
can venture anything, can create or invent its style; it 



i 



has 3 right to do so. For, whatever certain men may 
have said who did not think what they were saying, and 
among whom we must placr, notably, him who writes these 
lines, the French tongue is not fixed and never will be. 
A language does not become fi.ted. The human intellect 
is always on the march, or, if you prefer, in movement, 
and languages with it. Things are made so. When the 
body changes, how could the coat not change ? The French 
of the nineteenth century can no more be the French of 
the eighteenth, than that is the French of the seventeenth. 
or than the French of the seventeenth is that of the six- 
teenth. Montaigne's language is not Rabelais's, Pascal's 
is not Montaigne's, Montesquieu's is not Pascal's. Each of 
the four languages, taken by itself, is admirable because 
it is original. Every age has its own ideas; it must have 
also words adapted to those ideas. Languages are like the 
sea, they move to and fro incessantly. At certain times 
they leave one shore of the world of thought and over- 
flow another. All that their waves thus abandon dries 
up and vanishes. It is in this wise that ideas vanish, 
that words disappear. It is the same with human tongues 
as with everything. Each age adds and takes away some- 
thing. What can be done? It is the decree of fate. In 
vain, therefore, should we seek to petrify the mobile physiog- 
nomy of our idiom in a fixed form. In vain do our liter- 
ary Joshuas cry out to the language to stand still ; lan- 
guages and the sun do not stand still. The day when 
they become fixed, they are dead. — That is why the French , 
of a certain contemporary school is a dead language. 

Such are, substantially, but without the more elaborate I 
development which would make the evidence in their favour 
more complete, the present ideas of the author of this book 
concerning the drama. He is far. however, from pre- 
suming to put forth his first dramatic essay as an emana- | 
tton of these ideas, which, on the contrary, are themselves, 
it may be, simply results of its esecution. It would be 
very convenient for him, no doubt, and very clever, 
rest his book on his preface, and to defend each by the 
other. He prefers less cleverness and more frankness. I~ 
proposes, therefore, to be the first to point out the « 



treme tenuity of the thread connecting this preface with 
his drama. His first plan, dictated by his laziness, was to 
give the work to the public entirely unattended: el demonio 
tin las ctiernas, as Yriarte said. It was only after he 
had duly brought it to a close, that, at the solicitations of 
a few friends, blinded by their friendship, no doubt, he 
determined to reckon with himself in a preface — to draw, 
so to speak, a map of the poetic voyage he had made, 
to take account of the acquisitions, good or bad, that he 
had brought home, and of the new aspects in which the 
domain of art had presented itself to his mind. Some- 
one will take advantage of this admission, doubtless, to 
repeat the reproach already uttered by a critic in Ger- 
many, that he has written "a treatise in defence of his 
poetry," What does it matter? In the first place he was 
much more inclined to demolish treatises on poetry than 
to write them. And then, would it not be better always 
to write treatises based on a poem, than to write poems 
based on a treatise? But no, we repeat that he has neither 
the talent to create nor the presumption to put forth 
systems. " Systems," cleverly said Voltaire, "are like rats 
which pass through twenty holes, only to find at last two 
or three which will not let them through." It would have 
been, therefore, to undertake a useless task and one much 
beyond his strength. What he has pleaded, on the con- 
trary, is the freedom of art against the despotism of sys- 
tems, codes and rules. It is his habit to follow at all 
risks whatever he takes for his inspiration, and to change 
moulds as often as he changes metals. Dogmatism in 
the arts is what he shuns before everything. God for- 
bid that he should aspire to be numbered among those 
men, be they romanticists or classicists, who compose -works 
according to their own systems, who condemn themselves 
to have but one form in their minds, to be forever promng 
something, to follow other laws than those of their tempera- 
ments and their natures. The artificial work of these men, 
however talented they may be, has no existence so far as 
art is concerned, It is a theory, not poetry. 

Having attempted, in all that has gone before, to point 
cut what, in our opinion, was the origin of the drama. 



VICTOR HLfOO 

what its ehaneter is, and what its styk shotiM be, the 
time has come to descend from these exalted general con- 
sktcrations upon the art to the particular case which has 
ted tts to put them forth. It remains for us to discourse 
to the reader of our work, of tiiis CramweU; and as it is 
not a subject in which we take pleasure, we will say very 
little about it in very few words. 

Oliver Cromwell is one of those historical characters 
who are at once very famous and very little known. Most 
of his biographers — and among them there are some who 
are themselves historical — ^have left that colossal figure 
incomplete. It would seem that the>- dared not assemble all 
the characteristic features of that strange and gigantic 
prototype of the religious reformation, of the political 
revolution of England. Almost all of them have confined 
themselves to reproducing on a larger scale the simple and 
ominous profile drawn by Bossuet from his Catholic and 
monarchical standpoint, from his episcopal pulpit supported 
by the throne of Louis XIV. 

Like everybody else, the author of this book went no 
further than that. The name of Oliver Cromwell sug- 
gested to him simply the bare conception of a faaati<^ 
regicide and a great captain. Only on prowling among 
the chronicles of the limes, which he did with delight, 
and on looking through the Eng!i5h memoirs of the seven- 
teenth century, was he surprised to find that a wholly 
new Cromwell was gradually exposed to his gaze. It was 
no longer simply Bossuet's Cromwell the soldier, Crom- 
well the politician; if was a complex, heterogenous, mul- 
tiple being, made up of all sorts of contraries — a mixture 
of much that was evil and much that was good, of genius 
and pettiness; a sort of Tiberius-Dandio. the tyrant of 
Europe and the plaything of his family; an old regicide, 
who delighted to humiliate the ambassadors of all the kings 
, of Europe, and was tormented by bis young royalist dau^ 
i ter: austere and gloomy in bis manners, yet keeping four 
' court jesters about him; given to the composition of 
wretched verses; sober, simple, fnigal, yet a stickler fof 
etiquette; a rough soldier and a crafty politician; skilled 
in theological disputation and very fond of it; a dull, dif- 




TO CROMWELL 

fase, obscure orator, but clever in speaking the language 
of anybody whom he wished to influence; a hypocrite and 
a fanatic; a visionary swayed by phantoms of his child- 
hood, believing in astrologers and banishing tliem; suspi- 
cious to excess, always threatening, rarely sanguinary; a 
strict observer of Puritan rules, and solemnly wasting 
several hours a day in buffoonery; abrupt and contemptuous 
with his intimates, caressing with the secretaries whom he 
feared, holding his remorse at bay with sophistry, pal- 
tering with his conscience, inexhaustible in adroitness, in 
tricks, in resources; mastering his imagination by his 
intelligence; grotesque and sublime; in a word, one of 
those men who are "square at the base," as they were 
described by Napoleon, himself their chief, in his mathe- 
matically exact and poetically figurative language. 

He who writes these lines, in presence of this rare and 
impressive ensetnbU, felt that Bossuet's impassioned sketch 
was no longer sufficient for him. He began to walk about 
that lofty figure, and he was seized by a powerful tempta- 
tion to depict the giant in all his aspects. It was a rich 
soil. Beside the man of war and the statesman, it re- 
mained to draw the theologian, the pedant, the wretched 
poet, the seer of visions, the buffoon, the father, the hus- 
band, the human Proteus — in a word, the twofold Crom- 
well, homo ct Ti>. 

There is one period of his life, especially, in which this 
strange personality exhibits itself in all its forms. It 
is not as one might think at first blush, the period of 
the trial of Charles I, instinct as that is with depressing 
and terrible interest; but it is the moment when the am- 
bitious mortal boldly attempted to pluck the fruit of that 
monarch's death : it is the moment when Cromwell, hav- 
ing attained what would have been to any other man the 
zenith of fortune — master of England, whose innumerable 
factions knelt silently at his feet; master of Scotland, 
of which he had made a satrapy, and of Ireland, which 
he had turned into a prison; master of Europe through 
his diplomacy and his fleets — seeks to fulfil the dream 
of his earliest childhood, the last ambition of his life; 
to make himself king. History never had a more im- 




VICTOR HUGO 

I in ft EDore impressive dmaa. First of aD. 

: Protector xrrangca to be urged to assnme tbe crown: 
tlic sognst farce begins bjr addresses from mnnictpalides, 
from cotmties; dieo there cotaes an act of ParliameoL 
CfooiwcU, tfae ajmjmoas atUbor of the play, pretends to 
be displeased; we ecc bim put out a hand toward tbe 
■ceptre. then draw it bade; by a devious path he draws 
near the throne irom which he has swept th^ legitimate 
djuasty. At last he makes op his mind, soddenly ; by 
bis cominaad Westminster is decked with flags, the dais 
is bmh, the crown is ordered from the Jewelers, the day 
19 appointed for the ceremooj. — Strange denouement! 
that very day, in presence of the populace, the troops. 
ifae House of Commons, in the great hall of West- 
minster, on that dais from which he expected to descend 
as king, saddenly, as if aroused by a shock, he seems 
to awaken at the sight of the crown, asks if he is 
dreaming, and what the meaning is of all this regal 
pomp, and in a speech that lasts three hours declines the 
kingly tide. 

Was it because his spies had warned him of two con- 
spiracies formed ty Cavaliers and Puritans in concert, 
which were intended, taking advantage of this misstep, to 
break out on the same day ? Was it an inward revolution 
caused by the silence or the murmurs of the populace, 
discomposed to see their regicide ascend the throne? Or 
was it simply the sagacity of genius, the instinct of a 
far-seeing, albeit unbridled ambition, which realijies how 
one step forward changes a man's position and attitude, 
and which dares not expose its plebeian structure to the 
wind of unpopularity? Was it all these at once? This 
is a question which no contemporaneous document answers 
satisfactorily. So much the better: the poet's liberty is 
the more complete, and the drama is the gainer by the 
latitude which history affords it. It will be seen that 
here the latitii'Ie is ample and unique; this is. in truth, 
the decisive hour, the turning-point in Cromwell's life. 
It is the moment when his chimera escapes from him. when 
the present kills the future, when, to use an expressive 
colloquialism, his destiny misses fire. All of Cromwell is 



TO CnOMWEIX 

at Etafce in the comedy being played between England and 
himself. 

Such then is the man and such the period of which we 
have tried to give an idea in this book. 

The author has allowed himself to be seduced by the child- 
like diversion of touching the keys of that great harpsi- 
chord. Unquestionably, more skillful hands might have 
evoked a thrilling and profound melody — not of those 
which simply caress the ear — but of those intimate har- 
monies which stir the whole man to the depths of his 
being, as if each key of the key-board were connected with 
a fibre of the heart. He has surrendered to the desire to 
depict all those fanaticisms, all those superstitions — • 
maladies to which religion is subject at certain epochs; 
to the longing to " make playthings of all these men," as 
Hamlet says. To set in array about and below Cromwell, 
himself the centre and pivot of that court, of that people, 
of that little world, which attracts all to his cause and 
inspires all with his vigour, that twofold conspiracy devised 
by two factions which detest each other, but join hands 
to overthrow the man who blocks their path, but which 
unite simply without blending; and that Puritan faction, 
of divers minds, fanatical, gloomy, unselfish, choosing for 
leader the most insignificant of men for such a great part, 
the egotistical and cowardly Lambert; and the faction o£ 
the Cavaliers, featherheaded, merry, unscrupulous, reck- 
less, devoted, led by the man who, aside from his devo- 
tion to the cause, was least fitted to represent it, the stern 
and upright Ormond : and those ambassadors, so humble 
and fawning before the soldier of fortune; and the court 
itself, an extraordinary mixture of upstarts and great 
nobles vying with one another in baseness ; and the four 
jesters whom the contemptuous neglect of history permitted 
me to invent; and Cromwell's family, each member of 
which is as a thorn in his flesh; and Thurloe, the Pro- 
tector's Achates; and the Jewish rahbi, Israel Ben-Manas- 
seh, spy. usurer, and astrologer, vile on two sides, sublime 
on the third; and Rochester, the unique Rochester, absurd 
and clever, refined and crapulous, ahvays cursing, always 
ia lo\e, and always tipsy, as he himself boasted to Bishop 




psUc of evtrytiuBg. ot rme and i 

and foUjr, viUatsy and gratroi 

et whoa history deaertbc* bat one tni^ albrit a a 

actcriMic and si^x*>d*e ooe; and tboac 

of all nuilu and varietie*: Harriioa. die t _ 

Barebone* ihe ibopktefaag faoatk ; ^wkronb^ i&e ( 

Gailand the tearful aad juoiu iwiitrin: i_ ~ ~ 

Overton, intc]J)gcnt tmt a Cttk dnJamatory; die t 

and nnboidiitfr Ludlow, who kft hia aabea and In ■ 

at Lautanne ; and lastly, " Milton and a few < 

of mind," ai we read in a panpbJet of 1673 (Cro 

th€ Polifkian), which reminds one of "a cenain Dante' 

of the Italian chronicle 

We omit many lew important characters, of each of 
whnrti, however, the actual life is known, and each of 
wliom ha.4 his marked individuality, and all of whom coo- 
tribuled to the fascination which this vast historical scene 
exerled upon the author's imagination. From that scene 
he conklrucled this drama. He moulded it in vers^ be- 
cause he preferred to do so. One will discover on read- 
ing it how little thought he gave to his work while writing 
this preface — with what disinterestedness, for instance, 
he contended against the dogma of the unities. His drama 
doc* not leave London: it begins on June 25, 1657, at three 
in the morning, and ends on the 26th at noon. Observe 
that he has almost followed the classic formula, as the 
professors of poetry lay it down to-day. They need not, 
however, thank him for it. With the permission of history, 
not of Aristotle, the author constructed his drama thus; 
and because, when the interest is the same, he prefers a 
compact subject to a widely diffused one. 

If is evident that, in its present proportions, this drama 
could not be given at one ot our theatrical performances. 
It is too long. The reader will perhaps comprehend, none 
the less, that every part of it was written for the stage. 
■ It wa^ on approaching his subject to study it that the 
author recognised, or thought that he recognized, the ira- 



possibility of procuring the performance of a faithful re- 
production of it on our stage, in the exceptional position 
it now occupies, between the academic Cliarybdis aiid 
the administrative Scylla, between the literary juries and 
the political censorship. He was required to choose : either 
the wheedling, tricky, false tragedy, which may be acted, 
or the audaciouiily true drama, which is prohibited. 
The first was not worth the trouble o£ wrifing, so he 
preferred to. attempt the second. That is why, hopeless 
of ever being put on the stage, he abandoned himself, freely 
and submissively, to the whims of composition, to the 
pleasure of painting with a freer hand, to the develop- 
ments whicli his subject demanded, and which, even if they 
keep his drama off the stage, have at all events the ad- 
vantage of making it almost complete from the historical 
standpoint However, the reading committees are an ob- 
stacle of the second class only. If it should happen that 
the dramatic censorship, reah'zing how far this harmless, 
conscientious and accurate picture of Cromwell and his 
time is removed from our own age, should sanction its 
production on the stage, in that case, but only in that case, 
the author might perhaps extract from this drama a play 
which would venture to show itself on the boards, and 
would be hissed. 

Until then he will continue to hold aloof from the 
theatre. And even then he will leave his cherished and 
tranquil retirement soon enough, for the agitation and 
excitement of this new world, God grant that he may 
never Repent of having exposed the unspotted obscurity 
of his name and his person to the shoals, the squalls and 
tempests of the pit, and above all {for what does a mere 
failure matter?) to the wretched bickerings of the wings; 
of having entered that shifting, foggy, stormy atmosphere, , 
where ignorance dogmatises, where envy hisses, where cabals 
cringe and crawl, where the probity of talent has so 
often been misrepresented, where the noble innocence of 
genius is sometimes so out of place, where mediocrity 
triumphs in lowering to Its level the superiority which 
obscures it, where one finds so many small men for a 
£iogle great one, so many nobodies for one Talma, so many 




vjcroai BUGo ^^ 

Tinf siaetdi wiU seen ill- 
tmafmvi fnfc»pv aad tar In^ Sxoxiiag; but does h not 
M|f aaife ast the Afttace dm Mjantes otir stage, the 
itedt of imnfma md ipnar, fatna the aotemn eerenit^ 
ttfteaneatXice? 

1^ hatV^ k teds booad to wam in ad- 
^ pcnoBs wbom such & pro- 
A a ftey satde up of excerpts 
fttn CrtmmHt waM vaa^y bo less time tben is or- 
~ liy a a tttria l ^ a i o tm xatx. It is dif- 
itself otherwise. 
driBg ^ tiere ot from the trage- 
. alistnci types of a 
' ■ alxKit oa a oar- 
iw «iffc «oeif>(d tmfy I7 « fev caaMoits, coknirless 
~ ' I «( Ar hcracK, aifl0^ to ill the gaps in a 
" ■ " " " " ; if Oat sort of thing 
C b mt too much time 



te on^ with his pecnliar 
~ipa itself Ifaereto, fais 
■h, Itt pMfions vrhicfa throw 

lis geains and his beliefs, 

M kn BUfooo^ his haluts 
I BOidB Ut pwnrwHt ani 

of sn of ttvtxj son wboni' 






W •! tec* 1 



ifcM soeh a pictarc wiU 
I o£ oac penouaSitj, I3» 
aM •( tbe oU school ' 
coMNM, *v« «« W t«a«r< tonr. fiftjr.— wfao km 
Wv ■M^r>-^4 <WH7 ate wmi «S et e r y degree of i 
na>« wai be a ci««4 of dntactcrs la ' 
^tftpdM It OM W ai m w* j t> asttgn it two boon 
t aarf f)«« w <^ "at of tfae fcrfananoe to < 
' ' ~ ■ <ar 



the multitude of characters set in motion will cause fatigue 
to the spectator or confusion in the drama. Shakespeare, 
abounding in petty details, is at the same time, and for 
that very reason, imposing by the grandeur of the ensemble. 
It is the oak which casts a most extensive shadow with 
its myriads of slender leaves. 

Let us hope that people in France will ere long become 
accustomed to devote a whole evening to a single play. 
In England and Germany there are plays that last six 
hours. The Greeks, about whom we hear so much, the 
Greeks — and after the fashion of Scuderi we will cite at 
this point the classicist Dacier, in the seventh chapter of 
his Poetics — the Greeks sometimes went so far as to 
have twelve or sixteen plays acted in a single day. Among 
a people who are fond of spectacles the attention is more 
lively than is commonly believed. The Manage de Figaro, 
the connecting link of Beaumarchais's great trilogy, oc- 
cupies the whole evening, and who was ever bored or 
fatigued by it. Beaumarchais was worthy to venture on 
the first step toward that goal of modern art at which 
it will be impossible to arrive in two hours, that pro- 
found, insatiable interest which results from a vast, life- 
like and multiform plot. " But," someone will say. "this 
performance, consisting of a single play, would be monoto- 
nous, would seem terribly long." — Not so. On the con- 
trary it would lose its present monotony and tediousness. 
For what is done now? The spectator's entertainment is 
divided into two or three sharply defined parts. At first 
he is given two hours of serious enjoyment, then one hour 
of hilarious enjoyment; these, with the hour of entr' actes, 
which we do not include in the enjoyment, make four hours. 
What would the romantic drama do? It would mingle and 
blend artistically these two kinds of enjoyment. It would 
lead the audience constantly from sobriety to laughter, from 
mirthful excitement to heart-breaking emotion, " from grave 
to gay, from pleasant to severe." For, as we have already 
proved, the drama is the grotesque in conjunction with the 
sublime, the sou! within the body; it is tragedy beneath 
comedy. Do you not see that, by affording you repose from 
impression by means of another, by sharpening the 



I Wie i 



SH VICrOIl HUGO 

bas a right to do so. For, whatever certain men may 
have said who did not think what they were saying, and 
among whom we must place, notably, him who writes these 
lines, the French tongue is not fixed and never will be, 
A language does not become fixed. The human intellect 
is always on the march, or, i£ you prefer, in movement, 
and languages with it. Things are made so. When the 
body changes, how could the coat not change ? The Frendi 
of the nineteenth century can no more be the French of 
the eighteenth, than that is the French of the sci'enteenth, 
or than the French of the seventeenth is that of the six- 
teenth. Montaigne's language is not Rabelais's, Pascal's 
is not Montaigne's, Montesquieu's is not Pascal's. Each of 
the four languages, taken by itself, is admirable because 
it is OTtginal. Every age has its own ideas ; it must have 
also wards adapted to those ideas. Languages are like the 
sea, they move to and fro incessantly. At certain times 
they leave one shore of the world of thought and over- 
flow another. All that their waves thus abandon dries 
"up and vanishes. It is in this wise that ideas vanish, 
that words disappear. It is the same with human tongues 
as with everything. Each age adds and takes away some- 
thing. What can be done? It is the decree of fate. In 
vain, therefore, should wc seek to petrify the mobile physiog- 
nomy of our idiom in a fixed form. In vain do our liter- 
ary Joshuas cry out to the language to stand still; lan- 
guages and the sun do not stand still. The day when 
they become fixed, they are dead. — That is why the French 
of a certain contemporary school is a dead language. 

Such are, substantially, but without the more elaborate 
development which would make the evidence in their favour 
more complete, the present ideas of the author of this book 
concerning the drama. He is far, however, from pre- 
suming to put forth his first dramatic essay as an emana- 
tion of these ideas, which, on the contrary, are themselves, 
it may be, simply results of its execution. It would be 
very convenient for him. no doubt, and very clever, to 
rest his hook on his preface, and to defend each hy the 
other. He prefers less cleverness and more frankness. He 
proposes, therefore, to be the first to point out the as- 



trcme tenuity of the thread connecting this preface with 
his drama. His first plan, dictated by his laziness, was to 
give the work to the pubUc entirely unattended: et demomo 
sin las cuernas, as Yriarte said. It was only after he 
had duly brought it to a close, that, at the solicitations of 
a few friends, blinded by their friendship, no doubt, he 
determined to reckon with himself in a preface — to draw, 
so to speak, a map of the poetic voyage he had made, 
to take account of the acquisitions, good or bad, that he 
had brought home, and of the new aspects in which the 
domain of art had presented itself to his mind. Some- 
one will take advantage of this admission, doubtless, to 
repeat the reproach already uttered by a critic in Ger- 
many, that he has written "a treatise in defence of his 
poetry." What does it matter? In the first place he was 
much more inclined to demolish treatises on poetry than 
to write them. And then, would it not be better always 
to write treatises based on a poem, than to write poems 
based on a treatise? But no, we repeat that he has neither 
the talent to create nor the presumption to put forth 
systems. " Systems," cleverly said Voltaire, "are like rats 
which pass through twenty holes, only to find at last two 
or three which will not let them through." It would have 
been, therefore, to undertake a useless task and one much 
beyond his strength. What he has pleaded, on the con- 
trary, is the freedom of art against the despotism of sys- 
tems, codes and rules. It is his habit to follow at all 
risks whatever he takes for his inspiration, and to change 
moulds as often as he changes metals. Dogmatism in 
the arts is what he shuns before everything. God for- 
bid that he should aspire to be numbered among those 
men, be they romanticists or classicists, who compose ■works 
according to their own systems, who condemn themselves 
to have but one form in their minds, to be forever proving 
something, to follow other laws than those of their tempera- 
ments and their natures. The artificial work of these men, 
however talented they may be. has no existence so far as 
art is concerned. It is a theory, not poetry. 

Having attempted, in all that has gone before, to point 
out what, in our opinion, was the origin of the drama. 




VICTOR HUGO 

what its character is, and what its style should be, the 
time has come to descend from these exalted general con- 
siderations upon the art to the particular case which has 
led us to put them forth. It remains for us to discourse 
to the reader of our work, of this Cromwetl; and as it is 
not a subject in which we take pleasure, we will say very 
little about it in very few words. 

Oliver Cromwell is one of those historical characters 
who are at once very famous and very little known. Most 
of his biographers — and among ihem there are some who 
are themselves historical — have left that colossal figure 
incomplete. It would seem that they dared not assemble all 
the characteristic features of that strange and gigantic 
prototype of the religious reformation, of the political 
revolution of England. Almost all of them have confined 
themselves to reproducing on a larger scale the simple and 
ominous profile drawn by Bossuet from his Catholic and 
monarchical standpoint, from his episcopal pulpit supported 
by the throne of Louis XIV. 

Like everybody else, the author of this book went no 
further than that. The name of Oliver Cromwell sug- 
gested to him simply the bare conception of a fanatical 
regicide and a great captain. Only on prowling among 
the chronicles of the times, which he did with delight, 
and on looking through the English memoirs of the seven- 
teenth century, was he surprised to find that a wholly 
new Cromwell was gradually exposed to his gaze. It was 
no longer simply Bossuefs Cromwell the soldier, Crom- 
well the politician ; it was a complex, heterogenous, mul- 
tiple being, made up of all sorts of contraries — a mixture 
of much that was evil and much that was good, of genius 
and pettiness ; a sort of Tiberius-Dandin, the tyrant of 
Europe and the plaything of his family: an old regicide, 
who dehghted to humiliate the ambassadors of all the kings 
of Europe, and was tormented hy his young royalist daugh- 
ter; austere and gloomy in his manners, yet keeping four 
court jesters about him ; given to the composition of 
wretched verses; sober, simple, frugal, yet a stickler for 
etiquette; a rough soldier and a crafty politician: skilled 
in theological disputation and very fond of it ; a dull, dif- 



TO CROMWELL 397 

fuse, obscure orator, but clever in speaking the language 
of anybody whom he wished to influence; a hypocrite and 
a fanatic; a visionary swayed by phantoms of his child- 
hood, believing in astrologers and banishing tliem; suspi- 
cious to excess, always threatening, rarely sanguinary; a 
strict observer of Puritan rules, and solemnfy wasting 
several hours a day in buffoonery ; abrupt and contemptuous 
with his intimates, caressing with the secretaries whom he 
feared, holding his remorse at bay with sophistry, pal- 
tering with his conscience, inexhaustible in adroitness, in 
tricks, in resources; mastering his imagination by his 
intelligence; grotesque and sublime; in a word, one of 
those men who are "square at the base," as they were 
described by Napoleon, himself their chief, in his mathe- 
matically exact and poetically figurative language. 

He who writes these lines, in presence of this rare and 
impressive ensemble, felt that Bossuet's impassioned sketch 
was no longer sufficient for him. He began to walk about 
that lofty figure, and he was seized by a powerful tempta- 
tion to depict the giant in all his aspects. It was a rich 
soil. Beside the man of war and the statesman, it re- 
mained to draw the theologian, the pedant, the wretched 
poet, the seer of visions, the huffoon, the father, the hus- 
band, the human Proteus — in a word, the twofold Crom- 
well, homo et vir. 

There is one period of his life, especially, in which this 
strange personality exhibits itself in all its forms. It 
is not as one might think at first blush, the period of 
the trial of Charles I, instinct as that is with depressing 
and terrible interest; but it is the moment when the am- 
bitious mortal boldly attempted to pluck the fruit of that 
monarch's death: it is the moment when Cromwell, hav- 
ing attained what would have been to any other man the 
zenith of fortune — master of England, whose innumerable 
factions knelt silently at his feet; master of Scotland, 
of which he had made a satrapy, and of Ireland, which 
he had turned into a prison; master of Europe through 
his diplomacy and his fleets — seeks to fulfil the dream 
of his earliest childhood, the last ambition of his life; 
to make himself king. History never had a more ini' 



VICTOK HUCa 

pTGssive lesson in a more impressive drama. First o{ all, 
the Protector arranges to be urged to assume the crown: 
the august farce begins by addresses from nmnicipalities, 
from counties; then there comes an act of Parliament. 
Cromwell, the anonymous author of the play, pretends to 
be displeased; we see him put out a hand toward the 
sceptre, then draw it back: by a devious path he draws 
near the throne from which he has swept thj legitimate 
dynasty. At last he makes up his mind, suddenly; by 
his command Westminster is decked with flags, the dais 
is built, the crown is ordered from the jewelers, the day 
is appointed for the ceremony. — Strange denouement! On 
that very day, in presence of the populace, the troops, 
the House of Commons, in the great hall of West- 
minster, on that dais from which he eicpecled to descend 
as king, suddenly, as if aroused by a shoclc, he seems 
to awaken at the sight of the crown, asks if he is 
dreaming, and what the meaning is of all this regal 
pomp, and in a speech that lasts three hours declines the 
kingly title. 

Was it because his spies had warned him of two con- 
spiracies formed by Cavaliers and Puritans in concert, 
which were intended, taking advantage of this misstep, to 
break out on the same day? Was it an inward revoluticn 
caused by the silence or the murmurs of the populace, 
discomposed to see their regicide ascend the throne? Or 
was it simply the sagacity of genius, the instinct of a 
far-seeing, albeit unbridled ambition, which realizes how 
one step forward changes a man's position and attitude, 
and which dares not expose its plebeian structure to the 
wind of unpopularity? Was it ail these at once? This 
is a question which no contemporaneous document answers 
satisfactorily. So much the better: the poet's liberty is 
the more complete, and the drama is the gainer by the 
latitude which history affords it. It will be seen that 
here the latitttde is ample and unique; this is, in truth, 
the decisive hour, the turning-point in CromweH'a life. 
It is the moment when his chimera escapes from him, when 
the present Icills the future, when, to use an expressive 
colloquialism, his destiny misses fire, AU of Cromwell is 



at stake in the comedy being played between England and 
himself. 

Such then is the man and such ihe period of which we 
have tried to give an idea in this book. 

The author has allowed himself to be seduced by the child- 
like diversion of touching the keys of that great harpsi- 
chord. Unquestionably, more skillful hands might have 
evoked a thrilling and profound tnelody — not of those 
which simply caress the ear — hut of those intimate har- 
monies which stir the whole man to the depths of bis 
being, as if each key of the key-board were connected with 
a fibre of the heart. He has surrendered to the desire to 
depict all those fanaticisms, all those superstitions — 
maladies to which religion is subject at certain epochs; 
to the longing to " make playthings of al! these men," as 
Hamlet says. To set in array about and below Cromwell, 
himself the centre and pivot of that court, of that people, 
of that little world, which attracts ail to his cause and 
inspires all with his vigour, that twofold conspiracy devised 
by two factions which delest each other, but join hands 
to overthrow the man who blocks their path, but which 
unite simply without blending; and that Puritan faction, 
of divers minds, fanatical, gloomy, unselfish, choosing for 
leader the most insignificant of men for such a great part, 
the egotistical and cowardly Lambert; and the faction of 
the Cavaliers, featherheaded, merry, unscrupulous, reck- 
less, devoted, led by the man who, aside from his devo- 
tion to the cause, was least fitted to represent it, the stem 
and upright Ormond; and those ambassadors, so humble 
and fawning before the soldier of fortune; and the court 
itself, an extraordinary mixture of upstarts and great 
nobles vying with one another in baseness; and the four 
jesters whom the contemptuous neglect of history permitted 
me to invent; and Cromwell's family, each member of 
which is as a thorn in his flesh; and Thurloe, the Pro- 
tector's Achates; and the Jewish rabbi, Israel Ben-Manas- 
aeh, spy, usurer, and astrologer, vile on two sides, sublime 
on the third; and Rochester, the unique Rochester, absurd 
and clever, refined and crapulous, always cursing, always 
in lov^ and always tipsy, as be himself boasted to Bishop 



VICTOB HDOO 

Bumet — wrrtclied poet and gallant fentlmisn, vidous 
and ingenuous, staking his head and indifferent whether he 
wins the game provided it amuses him — in a word, ca- 
pable of everything, of ruse and recklessness, calculation 
and folly, villainy and generosity; and the morose Carr, 
of whom history describes but one trait, albeit a most char- 
acteristic and suggestive one; and those other fanatics, 
of ail ranks and varieties: Harrison, the thieving fanatic ; 
Barebones the shopkeeping fanatic ; Synderconib, the br: 
Garland the tearful and pious assassin; gallant Colonel 
Overton, intelligenl but a little declamatory; the austere 
and unbending Ludlow, who left lue ashes and bis epitaph 
at Lausanne; and lastly, "Miiton and a few other 
of mind," as we read in a pamphlet of 1675 (Cromwell 
the Polilician), which reminds one of "a certain Dante" 
of the Italian chronicle. 

We omit many less important characters, of each of 
whom, however, the actual life is known, and each of 
whom has his marked individuality, and all of whom con- 
tributed to the fascination which this vast historical scene 
exerted upon the author's imagination. From that scene 
he constructed this drama. He moulded it in verse, be- 
cause he preferred to do so. One will discover on read- 
ing it how little thought he gave to his work while writing 
this preface — with what disinterestedness, for instance, 
he contended against the dogma of the unities. His drama 
does not leave London; it begins on June 2$, 1657, at three 
in the morning, and ends on the 26th at noon. Observe 
that he has almost followed the classic formula, as the 
professors of poetry lay it down to-day. They need not, 
however, thank him for it. With the permission of history. 
not of Aristotle, the author conslructed hia drama thus; 
and because, when the interest is the same, he prefers a 
compact subject to a widely diffused one. 

It IS evident that, in its present proportions, this drama 
could not be given at one of our theatrical performances, 
It is too long. The reader will perhaps comprehend, none 
the less, that every part of it was written for the stage. 
. It was on approaching his subject to study it that the 
author recognized, or tiiought that he recognized, the im- 



I 




to*6romwell 

possibHity of procuring the performance of a faithful re- 
production of it on our stage, in the exceptional position 
it now occupies, between the academic Charybdis and 
the administrative Scylla, between the literary juries and 
the political censorship. He was required to choose: either 
the wheedling, tricky, false tragedy, which may be acted, 
or the audaciously true drama, which is prohibited. 
The first was not worth the trouble of writing, so he 
preferred to. attempt (he second. That is why, hopeless 
of ever being put on the stage, he abandoned himself, freely 
and submissively, to the whims of composition, to the 
pleasure of painting with a freer hand, to the develop- 
ments whicli his subject demanded, and which, even if tlicy 
keep his drama off the stage, have at all events the ad- 
vantage of making it almost complete from the iiistorjca! 
standpoint However, the reading committees are an ob- 
stacle of the second class only. If it should happen that 
the dramatic censorship, realizing how far this harmless, 
conscientious and accurate picture of Cromwell and his 
time is removed from our own age, should sanction its 
production on the stage, in that case, but only in that case, 
the autiior might perhaps extract from this drama a piay 
which would venture to show itself on the boards, and 
would be hissed, 

Unti! then he will continue to hold aloof from the 
theatre. And even then he will leave his cherished and 
tranquil retirement soon enough, for the agitation and 
excitement of this new world. God grant that he may 
never irepent of having exposed the unspotted obscurity 
of his name and his person to the shoals, the squalls and 
tempests of the pit, and above all (for what does a mere 
failure matter?) to the wretched bickerings of the wings; 
of having entered that shifting, foggy, stormy atmosphere, : 
where ignorance dogmatises, where envy hisses, where cabals 
cringe and crawl, where the probity of talent has so 
often been misrepresented, where the noble innocence of 
genius is sometimes so out of place, where mediocrity 
triumphs in lowering to its level the superiority whicli 
obscures It, where one iinds so many small men for a 
fitngle great one, so many nobodies for one Talma, so many 



mynnidons for one Achilles t This sketch will staa ill- 
tempered perhaps, and far from Battering; but docs it not 
fully mark out the distance that separates our stage, the 
abode of intrigues and uproar, from the solemn serenity 
of the ancient stage? 

Whatever may happen, he feels bound to warn in ad- 
vance that small number of persons whom such a pro- 
duction might attract, that a play made up of excerpts 
from Cromwell would occupy no less time then is or- 
dinarily occupied by a theatrical performance. It is dif- 
ficult for a romantic theatre to maintain itself otherwise. 
Surely, if people desire something different from tlie trage- 
dies in which one or two characters, abstract types of a 
purely metaphysical idea, stalk solemnly about on a nar- 
row stage occupied only by a few confidents, colourless 
reflections of the heroes, employed to fill the gaps in a 
simple, unified, single-stringed plot; if that sort of thing 
has grown tiresome, a whole evening is not too much time 
to devote to delineating with some fullness a man among 
men, a whole critical period: the one, with his peculiar 
temperament, his genius which adapts itself thereto, his 
beliefs which dominate them both, his passions which throw 
out of gear his temperament, his genius and his beliefs, 
his tastes which give colour to his passions, his habits 
which regulate his tastes and muzzle his passions, and 
with the innumerable processiun of men of every sort whom 
these various elements keep in constant commotion about 
him; the other, with its manners, its laws, its fashions, 
its wit, its attainments, its superstitions, its events, and 
its people, whom all these first causes in turn mould like 
soft wax. It is needless to say that such a picture will 
be of huge proportions. Instead of one personality, like 
that with which the abstract drama of tiie old school is 
content, there will be twenty, forty, fifty, — who knows 
how many? — of every size and of every degree of im- 
portance. There will be a crowd of characters in the 
drama. Would it not be niggardly to assign it two hours 
only, and give up the rest of the performance to opera- 
comique or farce? to cut Shakespeare for Bobeche? — 
And do not imagine tliat. if the plot is well adjusted, 



the multitude of characters set in motion will cause fatigue 
to the spectator or confusion in the drama. Shakespeare, 
abounding in petty details, is at the same time, and for 
that very reason, imposing by the grandeur of the ensemble. 
It is the oak which casts a most extensive shadow with 
its myriads of slender leaves. 

Let us hope that people in France will ere long become 
accustomed to devote a whole evening to a single play. 
In England and Germany there are plays that last six 
hours. The Greeks, about whom we hear so much, the 
Greeks — and after the fashion of Scuderi we will cite at 
this point the classicist Dacier, in the seventh chapter of 
his Poetics — the Greeks sometimes went so far as to 
have twelve or sixteen plays acted in a single day. Among 
a people who are fond of spectacles the attention is more 
lively than is commonly believed. The Manage de Figaro, 
the connecting link of Beau m arch ais's great trilogy, oc- 
cupies the whole evening, and who was ever bored or 
fatigued by it. Beaumarchais was worthy to venture on 
the first step toward that goal of modern art at which 
it will be impossible to arrive in two hours, that pro- 
found, insatiable interest which results from a vast, life- 
like and multiform plot " But," someone will say, "this 
performance, consisting of a single play, would be monoto- 
nous, would seem terribly long."— Not so. On the con- 
trary it vi'ould lose its present monotony and tediousness. 
For what is done now? The spectator's entertainment is 
divided into two or three sharply defined parts. At first 
he is given two hours of serious enjoyment, then one hour 
of hilarious enjoyment; these, with the hour of entr' actes, 
which we do not include in the enjoyment, make four hours. 
What would the romantic drama do ? It would mingle and 
blend artistically these two kinds of enjoyment. It would 
lead the audience constantly from sobriety to laughter, from 
mirthful excitement to heart-breaking emotion, "from grave 
to gay, from pleasant to severe." For, as we have already 
proved, the drama is the grotesque in conjunction with the 
sublime, the sou! within the body; it is tragedy beneath 
comedy. Do you not see that, by affording you repose from 
: iiii{>ression by means of another, by sharpening the 



Ticros BX300 

I tnffC Bpm tbe caaac, the merry opoo fbe tenible, and at 
seed caliiag in the duras of die open, Aoe p 
iriuk prcacnttng bat one plaj, woold be wortb > n 
of otfaers? Tbe roraxntic itage would make a | 
nroury, diversiScd dHh of that wfaich, oo tbe c 
u a dntg divided iota two pilU. 

The zaihor ha^ sooct come lo tbe cod of what he bad to 
Bajr to tbe reader. He has do idea hoir tbe critics wtd 
greet this drama and these thof^bts, summarily set foftb, 
stripped of their coroIUn» and ramiScatums, pnt together 
cnrrenU calamo, and in baste to bare done with them. 
I>oiibtle» they will appear to "tbe disciples of La Harpe" 
most impadent and strange. Bui if perdiaoce, naked and 
muSeveloped as they are, they should have the power to 
start npon the road of truth ^s public whose education is 
to far advanced, and whose minds so many notable writings, 
of criticism or of original thought, books or new^upers, 
have already matured for art, let the public follow that 
tmpulston, caring naught whether it comes from a man 
onknown, from a voice with no authority, from a work of 
little merit. K is a copper bell which summons the people 
to the true temple and Otc true God. 

There is to-day the old literary regime as well as the 
old political regime. The last century still weighs upon 
the present one at almost every point. It is notably op- 
pressive in the matter of criticism. For instance, you find 
living men who repeat to you this definition of taste let fall 
by Voltaire: "Taste in poetry is no different from what 
it is in women's clothes." Taste, then, is coquetry. Re- 
markable words, wbicli depict marvellously Uie painted, 
mouchete, powdered poetry of the eighteenth century — 
that literature in paniers, pompons and falbalas. They 
give an admirable resume of an age with which the loftiest 
geniuses could not come in contact without becoming petty, 
in one respect or another; of an age when Montesquieu was 
able and apt to produce Le Temple de Gnide, Voltaire 
Le Temple du Gout, Jean-Jacques Le Devin du Village. 

Taste is the common sense of genius. Tliis is what 
will soon be demonstrated by another school of criticism, 
powerful, outspoken, well-informed, — a school of the cen- 



tmy which is beginning to put forth vigorous shoots un- 
der the dead and withered branches of the old school. 
This youthful criticism, as serious as the other is frivolous, 
as learned as the other is ignorant, has already established 
organs that are listened to, and one is sometimes sur- 
prised to find, even in the least imjiortant sheets, excel- 
lent articles emanating from it Joining hands with all 
that is fearless and superior in letters, it will deliver us 
from two scourges: tottering classicism, and false romanti- 
cism, which has the presumption to show itself at the feet 
of the true. For modern genius already has its shadow, 
its copy, its parasite, its classic, which forms itself upon it, 
smears itself with its colours, assumes its livery, picks 
up its crumbs, and, like the sorcerer's pupil, puts in play, 
with words retained by the memory, elements of theatrical 
action of which it has not the secret Thus it does idiotic 
things which its master many a time has much difficulty 
in making good. But the thing that must be destroyed 
first of all is the old false taste. Present-day literature 
must be cleansed of its rust. In vain does the rust eat 
into it and tarnish it It is addressing a young, stern, 
vigorous generation, which does not understand it. The 
train of the eighteenth century is still dragging in the 
nineteenth ; but we, we young men who have seen Bona- 
parte, are not the ones who will carry it. 

We are approaching, then, the moment when we shall 
see the new criticism prevail, firmly established upon a 
broad and deep foundation. People generally will soon 
understand that writers should be judged, not according to 
rules and species, which are contrary to nature and art, 
but according to the immutable principles of the art of 
composition, and the special laws of their individual tem- 
peraments. The sound judgment of all men will be ashamed 
of the criticism which broke Pierre Comeille on the wheel, 
gagged Jean Racine, and which ridiculously rphabilitated 
John Milton only by virtue of the epic code of Fere le 
Bossu. People will consent to place themselves at the 
author's standpoint, to view the subject with his eyes, in 
order to judge a work intelligently. They will lay aside 
—and it is M. de Chateaubriand who speaks — " the paltry 



criddsm of defects for the noble and fruitful criticism 
of beauties." It is time that all acute minds should grasp 
the thread that frequently connects what we, following 
I our special whim, call " defects " with what we call " beauty." 
Defects — at all events those which we call by that name 
—are often the inborn, necessary, inevitable conditions of 
good qualities. 

Sclt (tenios, eatale comes qui temperat astrum. 

Who ever saw a medal without its reverse? a talent that 
had not some shadow with its brilliancy, some smoke with 
its flame ? Such a blemish can be only the inseparable con- 
sequence of such beauty. This rough stroke of the brush, 
which offends my eye at close range, completes the effect 
and gives relief to the whole picture. Efface one and you 
efface the other. Originality is made up of such things. 
Genius is necessarily uneven. There are no high moun- 
tains without deep ravines. Fill up the valley with tlie 
mountain and you will have nothing but a steppe, a plateau, 
the plain of Les Sablons instead of the Alps, swallows 
and not eagles. 

We must also take into account the weather, the climate, 
the local influences. The Bible, Homer, hurt us sometimes 
by their very sublimities. Who would want to part with 
a word of either of them? Our infirmity often takes fright 
at the inspired bold flights of genius, for lack of power 
to swoop down upon objects with such vast intelligence. 
And then, once again, there are defects which take root 
only in masterpieces ; it is given only to certain geniuses to 
have certain defects. Shakespeare is blamed for his abuse 
of metaphysics, of wit, of redundant scenes, of obscenities, 
for his employment of the mythological nonsense in vogue 
in his time, for exaggeration, obscurity, bad taste, bombast, 
asperities of style. The oak, that giant tree which we 
were comparing to Shakespeare just now, and which has 
more than one point of resemblance to him, the oat has 
an unusual shape, gnarled branches, dark leaves, and hard, 
rough bark; but it is the oak. 

And it is because of these qualities that it ts the oalc. 



TO CROMWELL 407 

If you would have a smooth trunk, straight branches, 
satiny leaves, apply to the pale birch, the hollow elder, 
the weeping willow; but leave the mighty oak in peace. 
Do not stone that which gives you shade. 

The author of this book knows as well as any one the 
numerous and gross faults of his works. If it happens 
too seldom that he corrects them, it is because it is re- 
pugnant to him to return to a work that has grown cold. 
Moreover, what has he ever done that is worth that trouble? 
The labor that he would throw away in correcting (he im- 
perfections of his books, he prefers to use in purging his 
intellect of ils defects. It is his method to correct one 
work only in another work. 

However, no matter what treatment may be accorded 
his book, he binds himself not to defend it, in whole or in 
part. If his drama is worthless, what is the use of up- 
holding it? If it is good, why defend it? Time will do 
the book justice or will wreak justice upon it. Its suc- 
cess for the moment is the affair of the publisher alone. If 
then the wrath of the critics is aroused by the publication 
of this essay, he will let them do their worst. What re- 
ply should he make to them? He is not one of those who 
speak, as the Castiljan poet says, " through the mouths 
of their woimds." 

Por !a boca de atx herida. 

One last word. It may have been noticed that in this 
somewhat long journey through so many different subjects, 
the author has generally refrained from resting his per- 
sonal views upon texts or citations of authorities. It is 
not, however, because he did not have them at his hand. 

" If the poet establishes things that are impossible ac- 
cording to the rules of his art. he makes a mistake un- 
questionably; but it ceases to be a mistake when by this 
means he has reached the end that he aimed at; for he 
has found what he sought." — " They take for nonsense 
whatever the weakness of their intellects does not allow them 
to understand. They are especially prone to call absurd 
those wonderful passages in which the poet, in order the 
better to enforce his argument, departs, if we may so ex- 



VTCTOR HUGO 

' press it, from his argument In fact, the precept which 
makes it a rule samettmes to disregard rules, is a mystery 
of the art which it is not easy to make men understand who 
are absolutely without taste and whom a sort of abnormal- 
ity of mind renders insensible to those things which or- 
dinarily impress men." 

Who said the first? Aristotle. Who said the last? 
Boileau. By these two specimens you will see that the au- 
thor of this drama might, as well as another, have shielded 
himself with proper names and taken refuge behind others' 
reputations. But he preferred to leave that style of argu- 
ment to those who deem it unanswerahle, universal and all- 
powerful. As for himself, he prefers reasons to author- 
ities; he has always cared more for arms than for coat$-of- 
•rms, 
October, 1837. 




PREFACE TO LEAVES OF GRASS 

BV WALT WHITMAN. (1855) 

AMERICA does not repel the past or what it has pro- 
Zi duccd under its forms or amid other politics or 
-* — *- the idea of castes or the old religions , . . accepts 
the lesson with calmness ... is not so impatient as has 
been supposed that the slough stil! sticks to opinions and 
manners and literature while the life which served its re- 
quirements has passed into the new life of the new forms 
. . . perceives that the corpse is slowly borne from the eat- 
ing and sleeping rooms of the house . . - perceives that it 
waits a little while in the door . . . that it was fittest for its 
days . . . that its action has descended to the stalwart and 
well shaped heir who approaches . , . and that he shall be 
fittest for his days. 

The Americans of all nations at any time upon the earth, 
have probably the fullest poetical nature. The United 
States themselves are essentially the greatest poem. In 
the history of the earth hitherto the largest and most stir- 
ring appear tame and orderly to their ampler largeness and 
stir. Here at last is something in the doings of man that 
corresponds with the broadcast doings of the day and night. 
Here is not merely a nation but a teeming nation of nations. 
Here is action untied from strings necessarily blind to 
particulars and details magnificently moving in vast masses. 



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WALT WHITMAN 



Here is the hospitality which forever indicates heroes. 
. . . Here are the roughs and beards and space and rug- 
gedness and nonchalance that the soul loves. Here the 
performance disdaining the trivial unapproached in the tre- 
mendous audacity of its crowds and groupings and the push 
of its perspective spreads with crampless and flowing breadth 
and showers its profl